The Past is Another Country
by emeraldphan
Summary: Now older and wiser, Christine's son Gustave recalls his early years, the journey to Coney Island and everything that took place there which changed his life forever. Read his version of events as he tries to understand it all, including his life with Erik. Musical based. Characters:Gustave/Erik
1. Where to begin

**This is based on an idea that I've had for some time. Christine's son Gustave is looking back on his early life, before the events of Love Never Dies. I'm using the timeline of LND, which is set in 1907. In other words, the events of POTO took place in 1896 and Gustave was born in 1897, when Christine was 20. If the story is fairly popular, I might continue it on as a LND sequel.. Please read and review – all opinions are welcome!**

_New York, 1967_

Memory is such a strange thing, and in particular, memories of our childhood. Why do we remember certain things and not others? Was it always sunny when we were children, for example? It is the same with me, as it is with others. Sometimes I think I have only remembered the happy parts, the parts that suit me. Nonetheless, I have decided to record what I remember of my life, perhaps for my grandchildren, or perhaps just to get my rambling thoughts in order. After all, I'm an old man now and I need to get these recollections and thoughts down on paper, before my memory fades too much.

Such a strange life, in many ways.. In my mind, I have had two lives; the first ten years marked out from the rest, as different from my second life as day is from night. And some would say that that is a very apt analogy. But for a long time now I have felt that I am at the tail end of a very strange story that began before I was born. I am the only one left now, the only character in that tale that remains on this earth. And that is why I now want to give my side of the story.

In some ways, it's a vain endeavour. I am looking back now, from a very different place and time to the world of 1907. A world that seems so innocent now. In the years between, we have had two terrible world wars, the Great Depression, the Korean War, now that awful business in Vietnam… Sometimes I wonder if mankind ever learns. For someone in his seventieth year, like myself, the whole world seems different and scary now. Space travel, talk of putting a man on the moon... things even I could not have dreamt of as a child. However, I am not naïve either. There was poverty and deprivation and a whole raft of problems in 1907, just as there is now. But I can only give you my own experience. If it all sounds nostalgic and sepia coated, well, perhaps that is how I have chosen to remember it. I can only tell you how it was from my perspective. Above all, I know that I cannot write about my early years as the cynical old man that I have become, but as the innocent little boy I once was…

In many ways, my life began very auspiciously. To start with, it did not begin in America, but in France. I was born on the vast de Chagny estate, just north of Paris, home of the famous and wealthy de Chagny family for countless generations. My home was the grand, imposing chateau; my playground was the long, sloping lawn, the gardens and sometimes even the dark, mysterious forest that bordered the estate. The farm and the kitchen garden gave us most of the food we needed. It was almost a world in itself, with servants to cater to our every need and tenant farmers who paid rent and worked the land. And at the head of it all – my father, or at least the man who I thought was my father, Raoul de Chagny. He was young, but after the death of his father he had become the owner of the estate and he was highly respected in the district.

"You should be proud of being a de Chagny"he would tell me often as we stood at the dining room window after breakfast, "One day all this will be yours. You will be the next Vicomte de Chagny and run this estate, just as this family has been doing since the fourteenth century. We have kept this estate through good times and bad, and it will be up to you to make sure it continues to flourish"

And I would follow his gaze, taking in the winding driveway, the lawn, the orchard and everything within sight, and yes, it was my home, but.. for as long as I could remember, I had absolutely no desire to follow in his footsteps. I could never explain why, but I never had that same pride in the family name as he had, nor did I want to own or run the estate.

And yet, I knew it was my destiny. I would go away to a boarding school when I was old enough, perhaps serve in the Navy for a while, as Raoul had done, and then I would begin helping my.. stepfather to run the estate, before taking it over completely after a few years. No other career or future was ever presented to me, so I never thought that I could do anything else. But inside, the thought of it made me feel empty.

I had everything I wanted – the best clothes, plenty of toys, lots of food to eat. And yet, something was missing. It did not help that Raoul and I had nothing in common. He shared none of my interests and never asked me about what I was doing. I liked mechanical toys that moved, but he would never take the time to explain to me how they worked, nor would he even offer to find out for me. More hurtful though, was that music was my first love, and he could not, or would not share it with me. He would never sit with me while I played the piano and even if he did listen briefly, from across the room, he always seemed uncomfortable. Most of our conversations, apart from those little lectures about the de Chagny history, involved questions about how my lessons were going, and they felt more like interviews. I have only vague memories of Raoul being affectionate with me, or playing with me. By the time I was five years old, he was already drinking, and that was the beginning of the end.

In fact I often found him looking at me strangely, as if he did not quite know who I was. Sometimes it was when I had just finished playing the piano or while I was playing outside or simply passing him on the stairs. Had he guessed, even back then? I wonder..

No, the one person who made my childhood tolerable was not my father substitute, but my mother. My mother… Christine, Vicomtesse de Chagny, or as the Opera patrons knew her, Christine Daae, the overnight singing sensation at the Opera Garnier. To her admirers, she was an opera singer, to her friends she was the wife of a famous vicomte, but to me she was my whole world. From my earliest memory, she was there, the one constant presence in my life, with her smile and her angelic voice and her stories. Comforter, playmate, nursemaid, confidante, she was all of these things and more. Singing with me at the piano, accompanying me with that beautiful voice.. all the songs we performed together! I have heard a few of those songs again over the years, via radio or gramophone, but they have never sounded the same to me.

Even now, the memories are flooding back… I see her now, down the corridor of years, as young and as beautiful as ever. She will always be frozen in time for me, for I have rarely wondered what she would look like at this age or that age. To think I am now forty years older than my mother was when she died! Somehow it feels terribly wrong that I should still be here. Why is it that some people die young and others, no more deserving than they, live on for decades? Over the years I have discussed this with others who lost a parent at a young age, and they too speak of the guilt they have felt when they realise they have outlived them.

How I loved her, in those early years! And I love her still, but sixty years have passed since she was taken from me and, inevitably, those years have dulled the heart-wrenching grief I first felt after her death. It is more of a fond remembrance now, like a fire burning brightly in the distance. I no longer feel guilty for not thinking of her constantly, "while the worlds' tide is bearing me along", to quote Emily Bronte.

I wonder if we would have remained close, if she had lived? After all, most boys gravitate towards their fathers as they get older. But even if we had never gone to Coney Island and those.. events had not happened, I cannot imagine being close to Raoul. Respectful yes, but not close. No, I think my mother and I would always have had a good relationship, even if we did not spend as much time together.

When I think about it, perhaps I would not have been trapped into taking Raouls' place after all. Even then, the days of the grand chateaus and the noble families were numbered. And think of all the changes there have been since then! I have seen the chateau only once in those intervening years. If I was ever to return to France again, I am sure I would not recognise the place. It is more than likely that my old home is long gone now. And I doubt I will return to my native land at this stage, even though travel is far easier now. Best to remember it as it once was.

In the end, my mother was taken in her prime at the age of just thirty, and spared the experience of growing old, unlike her son, unfortunately. I have seen other men worry about their mothers as they get older and become frail or blind or forgetful, and I have listened as they try to decide whether to put them in a nursing home. I was spared all that with my mother, but still…

I suppose it is easier now anyway, all these years later. After all, it's fairly unlikely she would still be alive today. But all those years in-between, all those years we have lost! All the key events of my life that she could have shared. Yes, I know I should not still be thinking of such things. Regret is such a futile emotion. And yet.. and yet…


	2. Blue Remembered Hills

**What are those blue remembered hills,**

**What spires, what farms are those?**

**That is the land of lost content,**

**I see it shining plain,**

**The happy highways where I went**

**And cannot come again.**

_From "A Shropshire Lad" by A.E Hausmann_

Even now, I know that there were two certainties in my early life – my mother and music. I can still recall sitting in her lap while she played the piano in the drawing room, for she could play a little as well as sing. She taught me scales and a few simple tunes, but I quickly surpassed her with a speed that left her astonished. The kindly middle aged lady who was engaged to teach me was constantly surprised at my progress on the beautiful instrument. "You're raising another Mozart" she would tell my mother, who looked on proudly. She told me that as a toddler, I did not just thump random keys, as many infants do, but instead stood beside the piano and _listened _as she played. I simply cannot remember not loving music. Sometimes I felt, and still feel, like I was born knowing how to play the piano, as if music was within me from birth, but of course that seemed impossible…

It was not just music that united us. Every night she would sit by my bedside, place my stuffed bear in my arms and spin the most wonderful stories. She called them "the dark stories of the north", all about trolls and goblins, wonderful, exciting tales from her native Sweden. There was Little Lotte, her favourite, which I can still recall: "Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was as gold as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and as blue as her eyes. She loved, most of all, to hear the Angel of Music, when she was asleep." This strange story captivated me, with its mysterious Angel of Music and the little girl who dreamed about him.

And when we both wanted a break from trolls and angels, she would tell me about her life. Those stories; sometimes long, sometimes short, were the most wonderful of all, for they were all true. She would tell me about her early years in Sweden and about her father, my namesake, the famous violinist Gustave Daae. She never knew her mother, who died only a few days after she was born, but Grandfather had been both a mother and father to her, caring for her with help from neighbours and relatives in the little town near Uppsala where they lived. There had been other babies before Mother, but none had lived longer than a few weeks, so she had been very special. He told her that her mother had been kind and gentle, but she was also a "frail, delicate little thing, God bless her". He had given his precious daughter his wifes' red scarf, which she treasured. She sighed wistfully as she remembered the lakes and the fast flowing rivers and long sandy beaches of her native land. She taught me the few words of Swedish that she remembered, and told me about the cat which used to curl up and sleep on their doorstep.

"Then some travelling musicians came to the town and told Papa about Paris and London and all the great cities in the heart of Europe where you could make a fortune as musician. Well, he was intrigued and fascinated by this and the two of us set out for France. But the only work he could ever find was not in the cities but the villages – playing at fairs and weddings, maybe a harvest dance.. Poor Papa… But we were welcomed everywhere and people let us sleep in their barns, or wherever they could make room for us. We learnt French from a kindly farmer who took us in for a while and gave Papa a little labouring work, for pay. Mostly though, I learnt the language from listening to songs and conversations. I was young I suppose, it was easier for me than it was for Papa..." She looked wistfully into the distance and I knew that she still missed him and loved him.

They had travelled all over France, this talented but impoverished violinist and his pretty little daughter who would enchant everyone by dancing along to her fathers' music. A man who had given up everything for his music only to drag his child into an uncertain life at the margins of society – how guilty he must have felt. And yet, as an adult, she never showed any bitterness towards him, just an unconditional love and, sometimes, pity. Listening to her, I felt grateful for my comfortable bed and the substantial meal which was placed in front of me every evening.

But that was not my favourite story. When summer came, and Grandfather needed to go the coast for the sake of his health, they came to Perros-Guirec in Brittany and stayed in a house by the sea. Now, my mother, as I've said, treasured her mothers' red scarf and was wearing this very item one windy day on the beach when a gust of wind suddenly blew it into the sea.

"There I was, crying for the scarf, when a little boy ran towards me and cried out "It's all right; I'll get your scarf from the sea." And he dived into the sea and swam towards it. I was so happy when he climbed out on to the rocks, scarf in hand! I thanked him over and over. The poor boy was soaking wet and got a cold, as the water was freezing. His governess was very angry though, because he had run away from her"

"And that little boy was Father!" I would laugh, because I knew the story so well. She always varied it slightly, sometimes adding or omitting details, or changing the words she used, but I knew the outline of it nonetheless.

"Yes, it certainly was! And when he had recovered, we became friends and played together on the beach every day."

"And you used to ask the people for stories."

"Yes, we used to go to visit the people of the area and ask them to tell us stories. And now I tell you some of those stories, as you know."

They had met in Perros for the next few summers and always played together. I tried to imagine it all from Mothers words – the cry of the gulls overhead, the crashing of the waves, the smell of the salt water. And Mother, standing on the edge of the rocks that day, the scarf in the sea – I could feel the wind and hear the splash as Raoul dived in, risking life and health for a girl he did not know yet. At night, her father would play the violin for them and tell them the stories that Mother now told me. They must have been such happy days.

But the happy days ended, with Grandfathers declining health. Even during their last summer at Perros, he was already displaying symptoms of the consumption that would kill him. One of his last "engagements" was at a wedding in a small village south of Paris, where he met a lady called Antoinette Giry, ballet mistress at the Paris opera house. The bride's family were close friends of Madame Giry's family, all of them having grown up in this particular village, and this formidable lady was impressed by Mother's rudimentary dancing skills.

"She could come to the Opera House and train as a dancer" she told Grandfather, but he could not bear to part with his beloved daughter. However, when he lay dying in a decrepit inn somewhere near Paris, he sent word to this Madame Giry, who came and took Mother to the Opera House after his death.

Mother lived in that Opera House for the next nine years, being taught and cared for by Madame Giry and becoming best friends with her daughter, Meg. Yes, this was how I first heard about Meg Giry… They had had great times together, studying ballet and performing on the stage. Then, at 19 years old she seemed to have begun singing as a soprano instead (she was never clear about why or how she did this) and became an overnight success, taking the lead role in Hannibal after the leading lady was unable to perform.

"But there was a surprise visitor to my very first performance! Would you believe, your father was in the audience, up in one of the boxes! And he recognised me, even after nine years. Then, when the performance was over, he came around to my dressing room to see me. He called me Little Lotte and reminded me of the red scarf. It was so good to see him again! He had become so handsome and grown up! So he began courting me."

They had gone to the theatre, to restaurants and cafes, to the Bois de Boulogne, where Raoul bought her flowers from an old lady who had a stall outside the park and always wore a blue hat with a ribbon around it. He had proposed to her on the roof of the Opera House – it never occurred to me to ask what they were doing up there in the first place – "and of course I said yes!" And she would describe the wedding and her beautiful white dress and veil with little roses sewn into it, and the carriage that waited for them outside.

"And then your father took me here, to our new home and we lived happily ever after!" she would conclude with a dramatic flourish.

Then I would fold my arms and ask her, "Haven't you forgotten something?"

This was a little game that we played. She would always look puzzled and frown at me.

"No I don't think I have – we got married, I moved here to the chateau and, yes, that's the end of the .. "

Then she would click her fingers or slap her hand on the bedclothes , pretending to suddenly remember – "Oh yes, I nearly forgot – Then _you_ arrived!"

And she would laugh and tickle me mercilessly and I would dissolve into laughter, which in turn would make Mother laugh even more. Eventually though, we would both calm down and she would release me.

"The best day of my life", she murmured, kissing the top of my head and holding me tight. Then she would tuck me in, usually while singing to me and I would always feel so happy and loved and safe.

Of course, the truth was very different. But I can only record what I was told, in my more innocent years. It felt like a fairy tale and looking back, perhaps my mother wanted to protect that innocence. Perhaps she – almost - started to believe this edited version herself. Perhaps she felt that a lie of omission was better than an outright lie. I will never know. But I cannot judge her for what she did – who would have told the real story to a young child, after all?

I loved our visits to Paris, travelling in the family carriage, with two beautiful horses to pull us there. I hated being fitted for new clothes but I loved the café we went to afterwards – I usually had a cream éclair, Mother preferred a lemon tart. Another thing I loved was going to the big toyshop, Montclares, but I did not always get everything I asked for. We also frequented the large department stores and a cosy little shop that sold sheet music. All the sales assistants knew Mother and always welcomed her eagerly to their shop, ever attentive and polite. Mother would always chat to them about the weather or their families, and they would ruffle my hair and remark on how I had grown again. Some people called her "Miss Daae" and she explained that that had been her old name, before her marriage. Raoul did not accompany us very often, which was probably for the best as he became irritated when people called his wife by that name.

I remember one very well dressed lady accosting her in a dress shop one day, approaching her from behind: "Miss Daae!" she screeched and my mother jumped about five inches off the ground.

"Oh I can't believe it's you, I simply can't! Do you know, I saw you in your very first performance at the Opera Garnier? Oh you were simply divine!"

She pinched my cheek, which I did not like, and continued to shriek: "Your mother- I presume this is your son? Your mother was absolutely divine that night! You should be very proud of her. Oh I'm so happy to meet you!"

Mother kept looking at the floor awkwardly and even blushed a little. But she managed to graciously thank the lady and slip away from the shop politely without seeming in any way rude. She could always be counted on to be gracious, even to the most obnoxious person, and Heaven knows, she had to deal with plenty of them at her social engagements. She was well liked in Paris for she treated everyone, from a beggar to a bishop, with the same respect and courtesy.

That was something else I admired about her. She had time for everyone, even the scrawny looking beggars that seemed to be dotted around Paris. She was upset by the number of children that seemed to be homeless or destitute, and sometimes gave them a coin. Raoul did not like her giving them money though, so she usually gave them something to eat, perhaps an apple or orange from a nearby stall. And once or twice she donated my old clothes and toys to an orphanage.

"When I was a child", she reminded me, "Papa and I travelled around all the time, with nowhere to call home. We never had to beg, but if Papa had not played the violin it could just as easily have been us begging on the streets. You have always had plenty to eat and all the best clothes and toys, as you were born into a rich family. But always remember that many children are not as lucky as you, Gustave. We can always spare a little for those who have nothing."

I have always remembered those words, and I would like to think that I have inherited some of her compassion and kindness.

It was a happy time, yes, but looking back there were incidents that happened, conversations which I overheard, things which I did not understand at the time but understand all too well now. To be honest, most of the time I was occupied with other priorities, such as trying to work out how my toys operated or spending time on the estate, riding on my Spanish pony, Pedro, or playing with my puppy, Alfie, which I received for my 5th birthday. Not all my friends were four-legged either – Louis, the head gardener's son, was my playmate in those years, almost from infancy. We were born about a month apart and we were always having some kind of adventure. He was probably the only proper friend I had. Pirates, soldiers, knights, sailors... we were all those things, running around the estate like lunatics.

However, although Louis shared my love of adventure, he had no interest in music or in any of the books I read. Nonetheless, we would often be found in the estate orchard, exploring its very climbable trees or sneaking into the forest. There was a walled garden which was perfect for playing hide and seek – or for hiding in with a book, for those times I was alone. In addition, Berthe, our cook, made delicious biscuits once a week and she always let me sample them first, when they were still warm from the oven.

It was not all fun either though. Lessons were a necessary evil, although I liked reading and learning new things. My governess until the age of seven, Mlle Devereax, was astonished at my rapid progress in reading, writing and arithmetic. She was young and ill-equipped to deal with my expanding mind and constant questions. So Raoul hired Prof. Chapelle, a retired professor from Paris to teach me. He lived with relatives in one of the neighbouring villages so thankfully I did not have to endure my tutor living in the same house, and his job was to teach me History and Mathematics, for the most part. Later on, he started teaching me English and Latin too, both at Raoul's insistence. He was very learned and encouraged all my enquiries. If he couldn't answer my question, he always had a book that could.

In addition, every Friday I had my music lesson with another professor, from the Conservatory this time, who seemed bewildered by my ability, both in singing and in playing the piano. Most of it came down to regular practice though, and, of course, a genetic advantage that I was not aware of until later.

Meals, lessons, playtime, music practice, attending church on Sunday; most of my life had a comforting, familiar routine. I do not want to give the impression that I was always unhappy. No, it was neither lessons, nor my free time, that were the problem. The real obstacle to complete happiness came from within my family – that is, the de Chagny family.


	3. Shadows

I never knew Raoul's father, who died suddenly when I was only two. But it was my grandmother (strangely enough, I still refer to Raoul's mother as my grandmother) who cast the longest shadow over my early life, and over my mother's life too. This formidable, opinionated, vain and utterly snobbish woman had a huge influence over us, despite having an apartment in Paris and a sitting room of her own in the chateau. She was Veronique de Chagny, well known in the village and in Paris, and hostess of the most wonderful parties in her younger years.

She did not like Mother very much. That was clear to me from my earliest memories. Oh, she was polite enough and tried to teach her a few "accomplishments" such as embroidery, but her politeness was always accompanied by a condescending tone of voice, which irritated me.

"It can't be easy for you dear; you're not used to such a fine style of needlework. You're more used to darning your clothes, aren't you?"

She always gave Mother such a contemptuous look behind her back, a quick up-and-down glance which could wither the leaves on the trees. Every dress Mother chose to wear was the wrong one, her hair could always "do with a little trimming", she must hold her teacup this way, not that way, she must not read those silly novels any more... endless criticisms and fault-finding, sometimes well intentioned, I'll admit, but usually delivered in that patronising voice and with that fake smile that never reached her eyes.

She loved me, but that was when everyone thought I was Raoul's son, and the heir to his empire. My cynical side has long since realised that Mother had provided this heir and must therefore be tolerated, against Grandmothers' better judgement. I wonder what would have happened if I had been a girl? She did not hide her contempt for her son's choice of wife either. More than once I accidentally heard her criticising Mother to Raoul.

"A dancer! I still cannot believe it. Honestly, Raoul, you may as well have run away with the scullery maid!"

I thought of Marie, our plain, dowdy looking scullery maid and tried to stifle a giggle at the thought of my father running away with her. But then, thankfully, I heard him trying to stand up to her: "Mother, it has been seven years, and you need to accept that Christine and I are married! " I could just imagine the expression on her face.

"And anyway" he reminded her, "You like opera! And ballet too – you were always going to some kind of production when I was a child."

"Oh yes, I like ballet. Indeed, I like ballet dancers – but on a stage, not at my dining room table!"

And that was the end of the argument.

But it was clear. Raoul may be her son but he had embarrassed her by bringing home an "unsuitable" bride, thereby bringing shame on the family. And she never let him forget it. Nothing he ever did was good enough after that. His sisters had managed to marry well, she reasoned, so why couldn't he? All the eligible young women in the area! All that his father had told him about the importance of marrying well! She harped on and on to him about his wife, and indeed, other subjects too, and he would often just leave the room in despair, heading straight for the drinks cabinet.

Mother never once complained; at least not in my presence. Whenever I sought her out to sing with me, she was always cheerful and eager to join me. But by the time I was eight, Grandmother was finding reason to criticise this too. Well, she needed a new subject I suppose.

"Gustave is spending far too much time with you, Christine. He needs to spend more time with his father. You'll make a right Miss Nancy out of him".

"He enjoys his music, Veronique. We both do.."

But the older woman was determined and spent a long time in Raoul's study, persuading him to see her side of the argument. Probably for the sake of a quiet life, my stepfather agreed to take me hunting.

Now this was the last thing I wanted. I loved all animals and could not bear the thought of chasing some terrified fox or rabbit for miles until it was utterly worn out and torn to pieces by dogs.

"Please, I don't want to go" I pleaded with Mother, who realised that I was too young for such an activity.

"He'll be at the back with Baron de Roquefort, he won't see anything", Raoul assured her. But I pleaded with them both and eventually Mother won the argument.

When Raoul's friends and neighbours arrived, for it was a large hunting party, they teased him about the fact that I preferred playing the piano and singing to their kind of pursuits.

"What kind of boy are you raising, de Chagny?" the Baron laughed. I did not like the Baron. He had a loud voice, always slapped me hard on the back when he met me and laughed too loudly at his own jokes. "That wife of yours will ruin him, you know! I couldn't wait to go hunting at his age!"

He laughed again as I dutifully came towards where he was sitting, shook his hand and greeted him as I had been taught, but I could not wait to get back to my music.

Later on, there was a huge argument in Raoul's study about the day.

"He's far too young for something like that!" my mother protested.

But my stepfather was determined to show some backbone in front of his domineering mother and immediately argued back.

"He needs to spend time with other men and to at least show an interest in such events. He will be hosting these parties when he is older, after all! He must get used to the way we live!"

But thought of hosting parties for people like the Baron did not appeal to me in the slightest.

I had nothing in common with Raoul's friends or their children. The girls I met at Mothers' friends' houses were silly, giggly little things who talked incessantly about dolls and their latest dress. The boys laughed at their music teachers and looked forward to becoming the lord of the manor, or joining the army, or studying for the professions. More than anything, I wanted to be a musician or an inventor. Or perhaps an explorer.

When one of the boys of my acquaintance heard me composing, during a visit to our home, he asked me sullenly,"What tune is that?"

"Just something in my head" I replied distractedly.

"In your head?" he sneered. "You're so strange. Why are you always playing that stupid thing? It's not even time for your music lesson!"

"I like playing the piano. Sometimes notes will just... come to me. From nowhere. Or perhaps from somewhere deep inside.. And I have to play them, to put them together. It's strange but I can't control it.. "

My voice trailed off and I looked up to see my companion staring at me as if I had grown an extra head.

Even Louis thought I was strange, when I tried to explain this to him. He was fun to play with but he never understood what went on in my mind, all the strange melodies that haunted me, unlike anything else I had ever heard.

More than anything, I wished my father would share my love of music. Once when I was playing I caught him looking at me strangely. Suddenly he cleared his throat, shuffled uncomfortably and rose to leave.

"Father, come and play this tune with me", I asked him.

"You know I can't play the piano, Gustave"

"But I'll teach you!"

"I have some business to take care of in the study. P-perhaps later."

As he left, I realised that he was not merely uncomfortable but _scared_. But why? Why wouldn't he let me show him a few simple notes? I wanted desperately to share my favourite pastime with him, for us to do something creative together. But he would never even listen to me sing or help me design a toy – another ambition of mine. He was more interested in going to his club in Paris or playing cards with various friends of his, particularly in the two years before everything ended.

Even these so-called friends often teased Raoul about his bride. I now realise that he lost a lot of friends over his marriage and endured negative comments from the ones who remained. Having to constantly defend himself, both at home and elsewhere, must have been draining. More often though, they teased him about me.

"Where did you get Gustave from? He's nothing like you, is he? Such a strange child. In a world of his own" they would remark.

Perhaps I was. But I was hungry – hungry for adventure, to create, to explore. Whether it was buildings in Paris or the forest adjoining the estate, the world outside fascinated me. At night I would gaze out of my bedroom window. The world is so different at night, cloaked in darkness. The moon, the stars, the stillness of it all… And yet not all life is still. Some creatures only come out at night, and that too intrigued me. I dreamed of sneaking out of the house one night, alone, to visit the forest and watch the foxes play together in the moonlight, or see badgers, or hedgehogs. It was a secret dream of mine for as long as I could remember. It awakened such a deep longing in me that I could not explain, and fed my endless fascination with the darker side of life.

Animals were another thing that I loved. Injured kittens, stray puppies, even my pony, I felt drawn to all of them. I hated seeing an animal or bird suffer. In addition to hunting, Raoul would sometimes go shooting with the gentlemen of the area, and that was another activity I hated. I cringed as I heard the gun go off, even if it was from a distance and ached for the bird that had fallen to the ground, a mess of blood and feathers. I was glad when this took place on another estate, for not only was it distasteful to me, I hated having to endure the Baron and his raucous laughter.

Even the Eiffel Tower, so hated by Parisians, fascinated me. "How was it built?" I would ask Mother. "How did the man who built it make it so tall?" "Why is it that shape?" "How are all the girders put together?" Poor Mother!

"I'm not sure, darling. Perhaps your father will know" she told me kindly. But my heart sank at those words, for I knew he would either have no interest in the matter or no patience to explain it to me.

Mother was wonderful in the way she read to me at night or told me her stories. But she had only a scant education and often seemed baffled by my questions. She was certainly not ignorant either, as Madame Giry had taught her girls all she knew about the various pieces of music they danced to, and about the lives of the composers. She also encouraged them to read "improving" novels, which always featured characters that learnt valuable "moral lessons" over the course of the story. In any case, Mother always tried to help, by asking Prof Chapelle to explain something to me or perhaps finding a book about the subject in question in Raoul's study.

"You are such a special little boy" she would tell me admiringly, as she listened to me play or after I described my lessons to her. And yet, although she always showed an interest in the books I was reading, she must also have felt that I was soaring up to heights where she could not follow.

As well as parties and balls, my mother had to be "at home" to the other ladies of the parish, all the bored wives of local aristocracy and gentry who were not quite sure how to relate to her. Some were like Grandmother, others were awkward and embarrassed around her and others, I'm glad to say, made attempts to be friendly and were actually interested in her past. Madame de Laurent was, unfortunately, of the first category and I have yet to meet a more spiteful woman than she.

I think I was about eight when this particular incident happened. I had been summoned to the drawing room after my lessons to play for our visitor. When I finished and stood from the piano, she applauded and praised me gushingly, calling me a "wonderful, wonderful boy". Mother, of course, was as proud as ever. I sat down again on the piano stool as they chatted, waiting to be excused, but soon Madame de Laurent had launched into a tirade about one of her new maids who was apparently completely useless and I was forgotten. So I just sat there, staring at the floor and trying not to eavesdrop.

The maid, Agnes, entered with tea and dainty biscuits. She seemed distant and put the tray down clumsily, making a clattering noise. The biscuits slid off the plate on to the tray and a little tea spilled from from the teapot.

"I-I am very sorry, Madame", she muttered.

I knew her mother had died recently and that she was not her usual self at the moment. As she attempted to lift the teapot, Christine replaced the biscuits on to the plate and wiped the spillage with a napkin.

"It is all right, Agnes, please don't worry. We will pour the tea ourselves."

"Thank you, Madame", she replied, her voice more steady this time, before leaving the room quickly.

"Such an incompetent girl", Madame de Laurent remarked contemptuously. "She took so long to bring the tea too. You need to take a firmer hand with your servants, Christine. There is no respect for us any more"

"Oh, Agnes is usually very efficient-"

"Usually" is not good enough. We have the same problem among my staff and I don't tolerate it. Servants nowadays think they are your equal, that they can practically sit down with you at the dinner table. It wasn't like that years ago."

She sipped her tea with surprising delicacy before resuming her diatribe. "When my mother was a child, her father took a whip to the stable boy's shoulders, for his impudence. He was never impudent again, let me tell you. Of course you can't do that these days, can you? They'd go straight to the local constable."

"Indeed..."

I was shocked at this story. And even more shocked by the way my mother seemed to accept it. Later, when our visitor had left, I made my way to the sitting room, lost in my thoughts, where I began playing half-heartedly with my tin soldiers. I could hear Mothers' rapid footsteps as she made her way down the carpeted hallway, after seeing off her "friend". She entered the room, quickly closed the door behind her and, to my surprise, thumped her fist on the wall!

"Horrible, horrible woman!" she snapped. "How I didn't tell her to -"

Then, seeing I was watching her, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and slowly resumed her usual composure. With a smile, she asked me what I was playing. Back to normal, in other words. But for just a moment I had had a glimpse behind her mask…


	4. The Snow Queen

My imaginary world of books and music grew more important to me as Raoul increasingly took refuge in alcohol. By the age of eight, I was writing my own little melodies, working hard on the notation even after my bedtime. "Gustave, you can work on that in the morning" Mother would tell me with her customary patience. But the notes were in my head _now _and I needed to get them down on paper before they flew away. Although I always obeyed her as I had been taught, I think she was sometimes a little scared of my need for perfection

I was always willing to put my music away in order to hear a story, though. I loved the darker fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm just as much as the happier stories of other anthologies. For my 6th birthday, I received a copy of Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tales, beautifully bound and illustrated, and this was one of my favourite books. It was perfect for those times when Mother had run out of stories. I could read by myself quite well but I still liked being read to sometimes. Mother and I liked The Ugly Duckling, but the one that gripped me the most was The Snow Queen. Even now, I cannot pass by Andersen collections in a bookstore without sneaking a look at this most wonderful story.

I was entranced by the adventures of brave little Gerda as she travels to the frozen north to rescue her friend Kai from the Snow Queen. Whenever Mother read the section about how they played and talked together under the rose-boxes and I thought of how she and Father had also played together as children. And just like the children in this story listened to the old grandmother, they had had Mother's papa to tell them stories.

"If the Snow Queen had kidnapped Father when he was a little boy, would you have gone and rescued him?" I asked Mother one day.

She laughed softly. "Of course! And I'm sure he would have come for me too! What strange questions you ask…"

I looked through the illustrations, the children in Grandmothers kitchen, or of Gerda sailing down the river, or asking the flowers if they had seen Kai... But it was the picture of the Snow Queen herself that entranced me the most – a mysterious, sinister figure, and yet portrayed by the artist as beautiful.

"I wonder if she was sad?" I mused out loud one day. I was eight at the time and Mother was sitting in the armchair opposite me, doing some embroidery. Grandmother was spending a few weeks with some old friends by the sea and could not interfere or object. The atmosphere was decidedly happier for all three of us whenever she went away. Earlier on, I had finished reading the story yet again and had spent some time thinking about it.

"Who, Gerda?" she asked distractedly.

"No", I replied sadly, "The Snow Queen".

She looked up at me in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Well, after she came home and found that Kai was gone. Perhaps she missed him after he left."

"Gustave, she kidnapped Kai, remember? She took him away from his friends and family".

I thought about this briefly.

"Yes I know, Mother. But maybe she was lonely in her ice palace? After all, she probably didn't have any friends. And when Gerda rescued Kai she was alone again".

I looked up, to see Mother staring at me in amazement. "Yes", she whispered, "Perhaps you're right". She looked deep in thought, as if remembering something…

I know there were other stories in my childhood, but Andersen's fairy tales became my inspiration.

"What are you doing, dear?" Mother asked me as she came into the sitting room one day, followed closely by Raoul, who was at home for once, and surprisingly sober.

"Writing a song about the Snow Queen" I told her, looking up from the piano, where I had been concentrating hard on getting the notes right.

"Gustave, Prof Chapelle set you some tasks-" Raoul began.

"Oh Raoul, he has worked hard on his lessons today! Let him have a few minutes to play the piano."

Sighing, he walked out of the room and slammed the door. Mother immediately sat down and listened to me play. But I could do nothing other than repeat the same notes over and over, and gave up in frustration.

"You really like that story, don't you?" she asked me softly, when I had turned around to face her.

"Yes, it's my favourite" I told her wistfully. I hummed a melody, searching for inspiration. But try as I might, the music would not come. I scribbled out the notation I had written already. How do you translate the story into music? The falling snow, the sleigh ride, Gerda's panic and sadness… So many ideas and emotions! Such a long story, so much to fit into a song!

"An opera.. " I mused out loud, "It should be an opera."

Then, with sudden passion I turned around again on my piano stool. "Has anyone written an opera about this story, Mother?" I demanded eagerly, "Have they?" She just sat there, stunned.

"I'm not sure.. I-I can find out…"

"It could be wonderful, couldn't it? Can you imagine? All that sadness and joy.. in _music._ I _must_ write it, I must! Why won't the music come?" I made a clattering noise on the keys, making my mother jump.

With that, she got to her feet.

"That's enough music for today, Gustave. It's a lovely day. Why don't you go outside and play for a while? You can do your lessons for the Professor later."

She seemed a little uneasy, and I have to say, I was surprised at how passionate I felt about my idea. It took me a few moments to calm myself, to bring myself back to the everyday world.

"Yes Mother" I replied dutifully, jumping off the stool and running outside. But my mind was still in the frozen North, with the reindeer running across the snow to the ice palace and a little boy trying to spell out the word "Eternity"...

000000000000000000000000

_Waving my baton, I guided each section, revelling in the sound that each made; the brass, the woodwind and the stringed instruments. Now I was blending their music together, the deep notes and the high notes, each conveying a different emotion. And I could feel the audience behind me, transfixed, enraptured..._

"What are you doing?" said a voice behind me, jolting me sharply from my reverie. I looked behind me to see a bewildered looking Louis.

"I was conducting an orchestra" I told him, as if it were obvious.

"Oh... Do you want to play hide and seek?"

"All right. You count and I'll go and hide".

I threw away the branch I had been using as a somewhat unwieldy baton and ran off to find a good hiding place. And for the next few hours, we were just normal little boys.

The evenings were starting to get dark earlier now, and as we set off across the lawn to our respective homes, I could hear Jeanne, Louis' mother, calling him for dinner. No doubt one of the maids, or perhaps one of my parents, would be calling for me soon.

"I have to go in for my dinner now, Gustave" my playmate was telling me, but my eye was drawn back to the forest, where we had been playing earlier. Now it looked mysterious and strange, under the setting sun. I could not simply walk away..

"See you tomorrow..." I murmured distractedly. Louis ran across the park to the gardeners lodge and when he was out of sight, I turned to go back into the forest.

The trees were tightly packed together, making it darker than I had expected. I strolled without hurry, enjoying my impromptu adventure. As darkness fell, I did not feel afraid. Rather, I was excited. I sat under a tree for a long time, listening to the different sounds, feeling the gentle breeze on my face. A shiver ran down my spine. Everything was new and different here, under the cloak of darkness.

But as I looked around, the trees seemed to take on new shapes_. Faces_.. looking at me in the growing darkness with cruel eyes and distorted features… Suddenly I felt afraid and jumped to my feet. With leaves and twigs crackling beneath my feet, I darted out of the woods and ran as fast as I could towards the chateau.

Raoul was waiting for me in the hall.

"Gustave, you are late for dinner. Go and wash your hands and come to the dining room immediately."

His voice was stern and I obeyed quickly, despite my breathlessness. When I joined my parents at the dining table my mother seemed relieved to see me.

"We were getting worried about you. We saw Louis going into the cottage but there was no sign of you. Where were you?"

"In the forest. It was so peaceful there, with the sun setting. " I replied weakly, becoming a little ashamed at how I had made them both worry. She looked at me curiously but did not say anything.

"You should not be wandering around in the dark. Eat your dinner before it gets cold." Raoul told me sharply. I obeyed him once more, but my mind was still in that dark, enchanted forest, with the trees and their strange eyes that seemed to follow me everywhere…

__0000000000000000000000

_I was running through the forest, the trees hemming me in on all sides and they all had faces, mocking and jeering me… The branches were sharp and all were pointing at me, like fingers. And there were footsteps behind me, chasing me... I tried to look around but could only see a shadow, dark and menacing.. As the footsteps grew closer, I saw light up ahead between the trees and ran faster, trying to escape... Suddenly hands were pulling at my shoulders, forcing me to turn around. The person behind me was hideous, a monster, their face scarred and mutilated beyond words..._

I screamed but the trees and the shadow had disappeared and I was in my own bedroom, clinging to my sheets in terror. In a moment my mother was running into the room.

"Gustave! Did you have a nightmare, darling?" She hurried to my bedside and put her arms around me.

"Th-there was a monster chasing me through the f-forest.." I stammered, my body trembling. She continued to hold me, trying to soothe me.

"It's all right, angel, it was just a bad dream. There is no-one chasing you; you're safe now."

Slowly my breathing returned to normal and I stopped shaking. With infinite softness, she sang a lullaby to me and laid me back down under the covers. But as she stood, I clung to the hem of her dress.

"What if there's a monster in this room?" I gasped, suddenly afraid again, "I once dreamt there was one under my bed". She sat down on my bed again, holding my hands in hers and looking into my eyes with her gentle gaze.

"Gustave, monsters aren't real," she told me, sighing. "You have such an active imagination, my little prodigy. All those strange ideas inside your head.. But I love you for it, you know that don't you?"

"Yes, and I love you. And – I'm sorry I was late for dinner", I added sheepishly.

At this, Mother smiled and tucked me in carefully. "That's all right, dear. Such a curious boy. But you must tell me or Father where you are going in future, do you hear?"

"Yes Mother, I will"

Now I'll sing a song to give you only nice dreams, shall I?" I nodded gratefully and, lulled by that beautiful voice I soon fell into a pleasant sleep.

Less than two years later I would see that horrible face again, and I would scream just like the first time. Only this time it was not a dream…


	5. Downfall and Deliverance

One Saturday morning, not long after my ninth birthday, I was sitting in the walled garden, happily engrossed in a book, with my beloved dog Alfie curled up at my feet. From behind me there suddenly came the sound of a throat being cleared. I looked around to see Raoul standing there.

"Gustave, I've decided that you should tour around the estate with me today. Also you are to come to the study with me and to the rent room. It will be no harm for you to start learning how the estate works."

My heart sank at his words. I was happy, my book was exciting; why couldn't I just stay here? But I did not wish to argue so I reluctantly followed him to the stables to prepare for our ride.

Visiting the tenants was not too bad; most were friendly and glad to see us. But later on, in the study – I had never been so bored! All that paperwork – letters, invoices, receipts, all the paraphernalia involved in running what was essentially a large business... It was not that it seemed difficult but everything in that room pointed towards a future I did not want.

Later on, after dinner, I sang with Mother for a while, which cheered me up a little. She asked me about my morning and seemed concerned by my unenthusiastic replies.

"Maybe you should spend some more time with your father, instead of with me? He's wanted to start teaching you about the estate for some time now. After all, when you go away to school, you'll only be home in the holidays."

_Away at some_ _horrible school, all alone.._

"You're an intelligent boy; you will be fine you know. You'll learn all about what Louis's father does, and the other gardeners, how all the servants are paid.. All kinds of things." She stroked my hair, smiling at me.

"Must I?" I whispered, looking up at her.

She sat down in the chair next to me. "Your father has requested this, Gustave. And... and I think it is a good idea." She sighed and looked down at the carpet for a moment. "After all," she continued, raising her head again, "You will be the master here someday and you will be doing your father's job alone. And besides.. you will hardly still want to sing with your mother when you are a grown man!"

"Of course I will!" I gasped. The very idea!

She laughed softly. "Oh, Gustave, you will think differently when you are older. Well, that is enough worrying for one day. Why don't you go off and play, until it's time for bed?" Eagerly, I ran to my room to find my tin soldiers and the fort that I was building for them.

But the idea of becoming the Vicomte de Chagny still filled me with dread.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

There was an incident around this time, in the autumn of my ninth year, which has stayed with me all my life. And I am definitely not proud that it happened, but I now understand to some extent why it did.

Raoul's two sisters – my supposed aunts – had married well; one had married an English earl and lived in Hampshire in the south of England. The other, Aunt Sylvie, had married another Vicomte and lived about fifty miles north of our home. She had a son, Richard, who was also an only child and was a year older than me. It was customary for us to visit each other at regular intervals and so we went to stay with them for a few days at this particular time. I remember sitting in the carriage looking out the window, trying to hide my reluctance and dreading the next few days in the company of my cousin.

I hated Richard. He was spoilt, selfish and a cruel, vindictive bully, who took pleasure in taunting me at every opportunity. And, just as I feared, from the outset of this visit he sneered, pinched and did everything to try and make me cry. He was not just cruel to me either – one of his favourite pastimes was to look for birds' nests in the small wood on their estate, just to steal their eggs and sometimes smash them. He kicked and poked the ginger tabby that I loved, threw stones at the dog and jeered his parents behind their backs. He filled me with dread and I hated him.

On the day in question, I watched in horror as he tripped up a maid who was carrying a pile of laundry to the scullery. He laughed as I tried to help her gather it all up. "Don't bother, Gustave, she's paid to do all that," he told me dismissively. My blood boiled, but what could I do? He was his parents' pride and joy, and they naively believed every word he told them. No doubt he would find a way to blame the poor maid.

Unfortunately it rained heavily on the first full day of our visit and we were cooped up inside, but Aunt Sylvie asked me to give an impromptu piano recital and afterwards I worked on my lessons. The following day the adults sent us outside to play while they strolled around the gardens together. Once they were out of earshot, Richard sullenly demanded to know why I had played "his" piano yesterday, which he only played under duress from his tutor.

"Aunt Sylvie said I could, because we couldn't go out to play." I protested.

"It's mine and_ I_ shall decide who plays it!" he snapped.

"I'm going back inside," I told him as bravely as I could. But a tight grip on my arm stopped me.

"Why not stay outside and play for a while? I know a game we could play – it's called Stuck-in-the-Mud."

Now, I did not like the sound of this game, so I tried to push his arm away, but his grip was strong. He was big for his age and not very bright, but he certainly had a physical advantage over me and I was scared. Managing to pull away, I started to head back towards the house, but a sudden push from behind sent me flying into a muddy puddle which had formed in a small dip in the lawn. Wet, muddy and angry, I looked around to see Richard pointing and laughing at me.

"Ha, ha, _you're_ stuck-in-the-mud! Looks like you've lost!" he jeered. Composing himself a little, he offered me his hand. Naively, I took it, but when I was half way to my feet he suddenly pushed me back into the puddle, laughing and jeering. Furious, I struggled to rise, as my cousin stamped his foot into the water, splashing me.

"I hate you! Why are you always so cruel? Just leave me alone!" I shouted.

But my voice wavered as tears started to form and upon hearing this, Richard continued to laugh at me.

"I'm going to tell," I whimpered, "I'm going to tell my mother and she will be so angry with you!"

The bully crossed his arms and sneered again.

"I don't care what your mother thinks. My father says she's just a common little whore from the Opera House and that she only married Uncle Raoul for his money. He says she probably had lots of men before her marriage-"

Anger rose from deep within me.. _How dare he! How dare he! _

"Your father could be anyone, he says. You're just the son of a whore-"

It was deep, deep in the pit of my stomach, rising like a volcano ready to explode. And explode it did. Before I could think about what I was doing, I had launched myself with a loud cry at the sneering boy, causing him to slip backwards on the wet grass, to his great surprise and shock, and now I was on top of him, hitting, punching, scratching.. All I could feel was utter, utter hatred and searing anger, all I wanted to do was_ hurt _him. Badly.

"Don't EVER talk about my mother like that!" I bellowed. I could see sheer terror on his face but did not relent for a moment, all the repressed hatred I had for him spilling out. Before I could even think about stopping myself my hands were around his throat. I felt a strange satisfaction as his eyes widened in terror, and now I was pressing harder, harder…

"What on earth! Master Gustave, stop that at once! Oh my goodness!"

It was the maid that Richard had tripped up earlier, but her voice barely registered in my sea of anger. I heard running, the maid shouting, more voices… Somebody was pulling me off Richard, the gardener I think, but still I struggled, as the person holding me pinned my arms to my sides.

"What on earth is going on?" It was Uncle Francois… and the other grown ups were right behind him...

Everything was a blur then. I think someone helped Richard up, my uncle shouted at me, "How dare you do that to my son! Your own cousin!" and slowly, steadily, my anger began to dissipate as the gardener pulled me away from the scene.

"He was trying to strangle me!" Richard whimpered, tears streaming down his face. My aunt was almost hysterical, Raoul was shouting and in the middle of it all, there was my mother, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide in absolute shock.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Divested of my wet, dirty clothes I was banished to my room in disgrace for the rest of the day. There I sat, tearful, shocked and utterly ashamed of myself.

After I changed into clean clothes there had been more shouting and accusations, and, of course, I'd been made to apologise to Richard, who, far from being his usual smug self, actually seemed genuinely scared of me. And those scratches on his face filled me with yet more shame at what I had done.

Even Mother was furious with me.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Now, much later, as I sat on my bed in a much calmer state of mind, I tried to make sense of it all. What on earth had come over me? That anger I'd felt – where had it come from? True, I sometimes got impatient when I trying to write my music, and my anger had been building up all day, but I had never, ever felt such destructive rage before. And Richard's accusation: "He was trying to kill me!" I looked down at the hands that had wrapped themselves around his throat. It had been as if my body did not belong to me, as if I'd had no control…

I was still brooding when I heard voices downstairs. It sounded like my mother and Aunt Sylvie.

"Christine, I know you are my sister-in-law, but you will simply have to do something about your son! I won't have this happening again, do you hear me? My poor boy was terrified! It's a good thing Colette saw them or-"

"Yes, I know Sylvie. I shall go and talk to him straight away."

There were footsteps on the stairs and then came a gentle knock at the door and Mother walked in without waiting for a response. She simply stood in front of the door at first, looking at me with an unreadable expression.

"Well, have you calmed down now?" she asked with unusual coldness. Meekly, I nodded.

Sighing, she walked over to the bed and I made room for her to sit next to me. She sat for a few minutes, fidgeting, looking at the floor, sighing again. Then she turned to me decisively.

"I don't understand it, Gustave. You have never been in a fight before, never! You're usually such a gentle boy.. What on earth came over you today? Remember we are guests in this house and you have behaved very badly. I am so ashamed of you."

I bowed my head, unable to look at her in my shame.

"I don't know Mother. I just felt so much hate and anger.. It was.. it was like there was a monster inside me. Right here" I pointed to my stomach. She buried her head in her hands and murmured something I could not hear.

"Why?" she asked. I could feel a little of that anger returning.

"Because he pushed me over twice and laughed at me! And – he called you a whore, Mother!" Then I added quickly, "That's a bad word isn't it?"

I was not sure what a whore was but I was vaguely aware that it was not a nice thing to be. "Yes, it is" she replied softly. I told her everything that had happened, and she listened patiently.

When I had finished, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "You must listen to me, Gustave. It doesn't matter what people say to you or do to you. Nothing gives you the right to hurt people like that, _nothing. _Do you understand me?" She put her hand under my chin and made me look at her. "Do you?"

"Yes Mother" And I truly did.

"I don't want you fighting with anyone, _ever _again" she continued firmly.

"But it's not fair. They shouldn't call you names like that. And I know how Grandmother talks to you sometimes."

Hastily she tried to reassure me. "Sometimes you have to be around people you don't like when you're an adult. I don't always like everyone I meet but I can't very well attack them like that, can I? And neither can your father, or anyone else for that matter. You will need to be able to get on with all kinds of people when you're the Vicomte."

My heart sank and I could not keep my thoughts to myself any more.

"But I don't want to be a Vicomte! Father will make me go around the estate with him again, won't he? I don't want to learn about it! I just want my music! Why can't I go to the Conservatoire and study music?"

Suddenly she cupped my face with her hands and I could see she was on the verge of tears. "I know darling. I know you don't want the estate. I've always known you wouldn't want it."

I stared at her, shocked. "You know? But why don't you tell Father?"

"Don't you see?" she sighed, gesturing helplessly. There's nothing I can do; nothing either of us can do. It's your destiny, like it was for all the eldest boys in the de Chagny line. But it won't be so bad you know."

I looked away sadly, but she continued, "Perhaps you'll go into the Navy first, like Father. You might have all kinds of adventures, travelling around the world. And even when you're the vicomte, you will still have your music and your books; you'll always have those. Just think, you can hold musical evenings in the chateau and invite all your friends!"

"And you can sing for me!"

At this she laughed, but there was a hint of sadness in the laugh too. "Yes, perhaps…"

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Life continued in its normal pattern when we returned home, but it was clear that Raoul was drinking far too much, both at home and elsewhere. When he was politely barred from his club, it sent him on a downhill slope with no end in sight. This led him to begin frequenting Paris' seedy taverns – he was not desperate enough to drink in the village hostelry. He would come home roaring drunk, usually shouting and complaining that his dinner wasn't on the table – it had been thrown out hours ago when he didn't appear. He would shout at Mother and the servants, and now Grandmother began spending more time at her apartment rather than endure her drunken son.

One night I could not sleep because of toothache and I badly wanted my mother. So I crept along the landing to my parents' bedroom, carrying my bear by one paw. Just before I entered, I could hear tossing and turning from within and then came Raoul's muffled voice: "No, please, I can't breathe, I can't breathe!" Startled, I froze. There was a gasp and then I could hear my mother's sleepy voice trying to soothe him, just as she often did with me. I sat down and leaned against the door, amazed that adults can have nightmares too.

"You haven't had that dream in a long time, darling," she was saying now.

"I could feel that damn rope around my neck; it was all so real. It felt like we were back in that-"

"Raoul you're safe now, it was just a dream. Go back to sleep."

Back where? Had someone tried to kill Raoul once? So many things I did not understand…

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I turned ten in the spring of 1907 and we were already on borrowed time, had we but known it. Raoul was not just drinking now; he had become a well-known gambler too, which led to his spending even more time away from home. The estate farm was not doing well and when he tried to raise the rents, the tenants (like all true Frenchmen) practically rioted. "We're not paying more rent to pay for your gambling debts!" they shouted at him whenever he passed by. I did not like accompanying him on estate business any more and thankfully he did not force me.

He had some new "friends" now, which he started to bring home for card games. I did not like these horrible men with their loud voices and cocky demeanour. Nor did I like the way they looked at Mother and the way they made remarks about her to each other in low voices, before bursting into raucous laughter. "Come and join us, lad!" they demanded regularly, but I refused. Thankfully I had my lessons to distract me from their behaviour; indeed, I was never as grateful for Latin verbs in all my life. The maids refused to bring their drinks into the room where they were playing cards and so one day Mother bravely tried to bring the tray in as quickly as possible, but they jeered loudly and even asked her to join them. "You can sit next to me, sweetheart!" one of them leered, which gave rise to even more laughter.

"I do _not _want those men in this house again!" she told Raoul later, behind a closed door. Wanting to get away from this atmosphere, I ran upstairs and played alone in my room until dinnertime.

"They love each other," I kept reminding myself, "They used to play together on the beach at Perros. They love each other.."

Lessons with the Professor sometimes took place against a backdrop of raised voices and my poor tutor would hastily relocate our lesson to the front lawn, or somewhere else out of earshot. Servants would hover around the kitchen and complain about their master, even when I was present, sampling the cook's latest gateau or dessert. Berthe would usually make some signal for them to keep quiet but I could hardly blame them for grumbling when he spoke to them like they were something he had stepped in.

He would come home from his gambling trips more sullen than ever and he hated when I asked him anything. Most of his communication to me involved phrases such as:

"Don't leave your toys lying around."

"How on earth would I know how to fix a kite?"

"For heaven's sake, can't you just leave me in peace?"

It broke my heart to hear him talk to me like this. Mother could offer no solutions or explanations.

"Why is Father always angry with me? I only asked him if he had a good trip."

"He's probably just tired. Don't worry, everything will work out for the best, dear", she would reply with her usual forced smile and that phrase became a cliché in our home.

Paintings started disappearing off the wall. Some of the servants left. In fact, at the end, we had just two left – Berthe and Adele, one of the maids. Berthe had no living family and Adele came to us from an orphanage. Neither had anywhere else to go and, sadly, that was probably the only reason they stayed with us. The estate went to rack and ruin, all in a few months. Raoul could not summon up the energy to keep it going, even when he was sober.

Then, it happened. He went off on another trip. This time to Monte Carlo, which I knew little about, but Mother begged him not to go and cried after he left. That very day, Professor Chapelle told me that he would be leaving his position in a week. He enjoyed teaching me, he insisted, but "circumstances" had changed and he would not be employed by my family beyond next Friday. He looked downcast and I was sure that Raoul could no longer pay him – in hindsight I am almost sure that this theory was correct.

At the end of that final lesson, which I remember nothing about, he shook my hand warmly and wished me well, telling me to always keep reading. He even set some maths and English exercises for me to do, "to keep that brain ticking over". I watched him walk down the long driveway, his shoulders stooped, his pace slow, until even his familiar grey hat was out of view.

I never saw him again.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The day that my stepfather returned, Louis and I were throwing sticks for Alfie to chase after when we saw a brougham cab make its way along the drive. The carriage was still here but the driver had left weeks ago and Mother and I took the public coach into town on the few occasions that we could afford it. I did not realise then how much of our future was resting on that trip. I watched a haggard looking man step down from the carriage – and then realised that it was Raoul.

I will never forget that day.

"All of it? You can't mean that, Raoul, you can't!"

I was hurried away from that closed door by Adele, but I badly wanted to know what was happening. All through that day there were shouts coming from the study, doors banging, the sound of my mother crying. At one point I heard Mother shout "I'm just glad Papa isn't here to see this, it would have broken his heart to see how you turned out!" And still she tried to pretend, even with red eyes and puffy cheeks.

"Everything will work out for the best" she told me gently, yet again.

Slowly, the truth dawned on me. My father had gambled away all our money and had even sold his pocket watch to pay for his train ticket home. He did not leave his bedroom for days and Mother slept in one of the spare rooms. I have never felt so helpless. All the times she had comforted me and now I tried to be of some comfort to her. I played lively tunes for her to try and cheer her up, but to no avail.

This continued for a week. Another picture disappeared, this time from the drawing room. Some of Mother's jewellery disappeared from her dressing table, including the silver butterfly brooch that she loved. Her husband had substantial debts from a couple of gambling houses and had run up a large bill in several Paris taverns. In fact he had more creditors than he could have imagined. None of Raoul's family was willing to help – they all thought that he had brought this misfortune upon himself. There was no regular income from the estate anymore and bills kept arriving. On one of the days during that week, some rough looking men appeared at the front door, demanding to see "the master". Raoul managed to send them away, but he looked visibly shaken afterwards.

"I didn't know" he insisted weakly, collapsing into an armchair. "They kept increasing the stakes. They were goading me on, buying me drinks… I didn't know they'd send those men around, not to the house…"

"We'll find a way to pay them, Raoul" she promised, but we had no idea how.

At the end of that terrible week, Adele brought in the post as usual. More demands, more angry letters… But there was one letter which stood out. It was addressed to Mother and the postmark was a place called Coney Island. A letter from America, judging by the stamp.

"Who could this be from? I don't think I even know where this place is," she mused.

I watched as she read it, her bewilderment growing. "It's from someone calling himself Mister Y," she explained, sipping her coffee. But as she read the next part, she had to put her cup down as she might have dropped it in her astonishment.

"He owns an amusement park in this Coney Island place and would like me to appear as the star turn in the.." she faltered here, "the end of season show at his theatre!" She just stared at the letter, unsure of what to do or say next.

"He wants you to sing? That's great!" I exclaimed. But she did not seem so sure.

Neither did Raoul or Grandmother, who had come to visit for some reason. Possibly to gloat, but that's my cynical side coming out again.

"Some stranger writes to you out of the blue and asks you to sing one song for a huge amount of money?" the old lady scoffed, "Some American vaudeville owner?" She sneered at the word "vaudeville".

"The letter is written in perfect French," Mother remarked, "Very formal and polite. He seems to know us, somehow, and he knows that I'm a soprano singer."

Grandmother winced at this reference to her daughter in law's former career.

"There's something not quite right about all this, if you ask me," she commented drily. Of course, if we had listened to her all our lives would have been completely different.

But what else could we have done? We needed the money badly. Raoul's creditors were not patient people and this sounded like the perfect opportunity for Mother to begin her career again, as well as solving all our money problems. We scraped together the money for a passage to America, with the money acquired through selling the paintings and jewellery, and I looked up New York in my atlas and tried to find out all I could about Coney Island. A travel agent in Paris who specialised in trans-Atlantic crossings gave Mother and I some brochures about this famous resort so I sat under the great oak tree on the front lawn and devoured the photographs and amazing descriptions of the various amusement parks. I could not wait to get to New York and this place called Phantasma…

The rest of that summer passed. I still had Alfie, of course, and Louis as well. His father had stayed on as the sole gardener and received a small wage from our rapidly dwindling savings, and this was only a temporary arrangement. Everything rested on this trip, on this one performance. If all those debts could be paid off, everything would be fine. Just one song, one performance, that was all..

Mother seemed more optimistic now and even took me on picnics in the grounds. She also helped with the household chores, which her husband was not completely happy about. With no more lessons, I had far more free time, but I still liked to read and play the piano, which Mother had refused to sell. Raoul even considered sending me to the local school, along with Louis and the other children of the parish, which he had never done before.

That last day is still clear in my memory. We would be travelling to St Lazare in a hired coach, the driver receiving payment when we returned. When We Returned. It was almost our family motto by now. From there, a train to Cherbourg and on to America. I can still recall that last journey down the sweeping driveway, looking back at the chateau, with the windows glinting in the sunlight, and trying to take everything in. If I'd known what was ahead, perhaps I would have tried to remember even more... Louis ran alongside the coach, Alfie barking at his heels. He would be looking after my canine friend while we were away.

"Have a good trip!" he shouted, waving frantically.

"Thanks! See you when I come home!" I shouted back, whilst leaning out the window. We left him behind soon after that and the last time I ever saw him was when we swung out of the gate and I looked back one last time, to see him off in the distance, still waving.


	6. Yearning to Breathe Free

In those dark, troubled years following my mother's death, my nights were sometimes haunted by a dream where I somehow found myself walking back through those gates again. There it was before me, my old home, the windows glinting in the sunshine just as before. Everything looked exactly the same as it did in the good days, from the roses in the flower beds to the magnificent oak tree standing on the front lawn. And I was running, running, the chateau just ahead of me, running as fast as I could towards it. Alfie came bounding up to joyfully greet me and we ran on together. Breathless, I arrived at the front door only to find it locked. So I ran to the bay window which looked into the sitting room, and there was my mother, alive and unharmed, sitting in her favourite armchair, usually doing some embroidery or perhaps reading.

"Mother!" I called out to her, "Mother! It's me, Gustave! Let me in, please let me in!"

I pounded my fists against the glass, but she did not look up. Again and again, I shouted to her; again and again I beat on the window, but she could neither see me nor hear me. And then, I could see it all fading, the room, the house, everything... and I would wake to find myself in a very different home, a world away. I remember I would sob in frustration at the thought that she had been so near and I could not reach her…

I have mentioned this because last night I had that same dream, for the first time in many, many years. Only this time, the hands beating on the window were old and knotted... I woke with a start as the dream faded, to find myself trembling and sweating. Leaving my bed, I half-stumbled to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and it was only then that I realised that it was my own, 70-year old hands I had seen in my dream.. I had been in my present day body..

Somewhat composed now, I returned to my bedroom. But my wife was awake by this stage and she reached over to turn on the bedside lamp.

"Gustave, are you ok, dear?" she asked me sleepily, "You were muttering in your sleep just now."

"I'm fine," I told her hastily, as I got back into bed, "I just had a bad dream."

"A bad dream? Are you sure you're all right?"

I looked away from her.

"I-It was about my mother..."

"Oh, Gus…"

Without saying another word, she put her arms around me and pulled me close to her.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Why now? A psychologist would probably tell me that I'm still yearning for my mother, or perhaps my lost childhood, at a subconscious level. Everything has to be analysed nowadays, doesn't it? Well, I haven't the faintest idea about subconscious levels. And I'm a bit too old to be yearning for a bedtime story. But it's not a coincidence that I had that dream again now that I'm writing this account, and thinking about my mother far more than usual. So much of my life was centred on my father – my real father that is. To write about my mother, I must dig very deeply into my memory, occasionally filling in gaps, no doubt, where my memory fails me.

So many things I thought I'd forgotten! This is no mean achievement for someone who searches for his car keys for 15 minutes before remembering they're in his pocket, or who regularly gets to the top of the stairs and can't remember what he came up for. And now I wear my reading glasses on a chain around my neck, as I have misplaced them so often. Yes, memory can be very elusive, but I've a feeling I'm going to become one of those old coots who can describe events from decades ago but can't remember what he had for breakfast that morning. Oh well…

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

But I was not forgetful or old or any of those things on that day in the summer of 1907 when we made our way through Grouville, the village we knew so well in a hired coach, heading for Paris. I remember seeing the spire of St Martin's church which we attended every Sunday, sitting in the family pew as generations of de Chagnys had done. I remember some of that journey into town, which we made largely in silence, probably with occasional comments from Mother about the weather and occasional complaints from Raoul about the state of the road.

It was early and Paris was not too crowded yet. We could see people going to work, or setting up stalls, ordinary people going about their business. Mother was looking out of the window and fingering her engagement ring distractedly. She was so anxious lately and, looking at her ring I thought of Father proposing to her on the roof of the Opera house, in the old days. That got me thinking of something else, which I don't remember asking about before.

"Why do you never go to the Opera?"

Raoul averted his gaze to something out on the street and Mother blushed a little, which seemed a strange reaction to my innocent question.

"It's very expensive, dear, and we can't afford it any more," she told me quickly.

"But I mean before… You never went when I was little. You used to be an opera singer - don't you like it any more?"

"No, I do.."

"You go to plays sometimes, and recitals but never opera. You've never even taken me inside the opera house."

"Oh, well I lived there for a long time, so I got a bit tired of the place, I suppose. And I've never taken you there because.. well, I don't really know any of the-"

Just then, the coach jerked violently to a halt and I was thrown forward against Mother and Raoul.

"What is going on?" my father shouted to the driver, when we had composed ourselves.

"Sorry about that – stray dog ran in front of us, scared the horses. We'll be off soon."

And with Raoul's grumbling, all three of us forgot the previous conversation and soon we were disembarking in front of the imposing St Lazaire railway station.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The journey to Cherbourg passed off easily enough. I had brought a book to read – Jules Vernes' 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea. The endless scientific jargon and sea life classifications were a little dull but the idea of travelling beneath the sea was a fascinating one and I was quickly engrossed.

"Imagine, Mother, being able to travel like that! All the things you would see!"

"Yes, it does sound like fun, doesn't it? Where are the characters off to now?"

Cherbourg was busy and noisy, with so many ships and steamers coming in and out. "Stay with us, Gustave," Mother told me firmly, taking my hand. The ticket hall was boring, with a lot of waiting around. But finally we were walking towards the gangplank that bridged the short gap between the quayside and our waiting ship, the Persephone. It was so exciting!

And soon we were in our staterooms. We were going to sleep and eat and live on this beautiful ship for ten days and at the end of it – Coney Island and Phantasma! Mother fussed around with our luggage, Raoul complained that he had no valet and that the porters were useless, and I explored our rooms, longing to go up on deck. I could only remember one sea journey before this – visiting Aunt Gabrielle and Uncle Robert in England. We had sailed from Calais to Dover, and that journey had taken mere hours. This would be an adventure!

"I'm going to get some air," Raoul snapped, and headed towards the door.

"Why don't you take Gustave with you?" Mother asked him, with a hopeful tone.

"Maybe later," he grumbled and left the room before she could argue. I felt a slight pang of disappointment, yet again.

"Let's go up on deck and wave goodbye to France, shall we?" she asked me cheerfully, and I eagerly took her hand and went with her to the promenade deck.

Soon, the anchor was lifted, the boilers were burning away, the propellers were whirring around – and we were off! So many bystanders too – some photographers, a few reporters, family and friends of other passengers… The latter group were waving to us all, and though they were all strangers, Mother and I waved back happily. We just stood at the railing as the port slipped from view and watched the Normandy coastline get smaller and smaller.

"We need to go back inside now, my dear. I have to protect my voice". So we headed back to our staterooms, with France behind us now, and a new exciting country ahead.

My euphoria did not last long. The English Channel was rough and choppy and I was soon green in the face. My first night on board was spent being sick into a bowl as Mother rubbed my back and sang to me.

"Look!" she told me, taking something from a drawer, "We have Hans Christian Andersen travelling with us!"

She must have slipped the book into her suitcase at the last minute as a surprise for me. But even my favourite stories could not cheer me up. The next day was not much better, but by dinner time I felt a little better and soon I had my "sea legs" as they say. We crossed the Celtic Sea and stopped at Queenstown in south west Ireland but a grey mist prevented us from seeing much.

Soon we surrounded completely by the Atlantic.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Raoul spent most of his time in the bar, despite Mothers' pleas. The two of us played card games in our sitting room, and went up on deck for fresh air regularly. We chatted to other passengers who were also going to stay in New York. And of course, Mother practised her aria.

"I'm quite nervous about this, Gustave", she confided one day, "I haven't sung in public in so long, and this is the first time I'll have to sing in English!"

"I'll help you," I told her. So she recited the words as I followed them in the libretto, which Mister Y had sent to us along with his letter, and I helped her with the English pronunciation, as necessary. It irritated Raoul to hear her sing, so he stayed away as much as he could. Her English was improving. She sometimes used to join me for my English lessons with the professor and now I helped her with the phrases that she would need, like "Thank you very much for your hospitality" and "It is such an honour to be performing here in New York".

"I wonder why the "h" in "honour" is silent but not in "here"?" she mused aloud.

"I'm not sure. The professor always said English was a strange language".

I had brought my English grammar book with me and we studied it together, trying to get to grips with the many inconsistencies. Little did I know how useful that "strange language" would become in my life!

All this talk of arias and singing got me thinking about the Opera House again. Whenever Mother described her life there, she always spoke of it as a beautiful building, at least on the inside. But she never went to visit her old friends there. I asked her at some point in the voyage if Meg and her mother still lived there, but she seemed evasive. "I think they moved away, dear, around the time I got married. It was all a long time ago and now I have you to keep me busy anyway!" Then it was time to go for breakfast or some other meal and I forgot about it again.

One afternoon Raoul allowed me to accompany him up on deck. He seemed less brusque and impatient than usual and even told me some stories about his time in the Navy. I listened intently, feeling hopeful. After a while I asked him about Phantasma but he told me he knew nothing about it.

"Grandmother wouldn't come because she thinks America is a horrible, vulgar country. But I don't think it will be, do you, Father?"

"I don't know, Gustave, this will be my first time there too."

He gazed off into the distance for a while and I wondered what he was thinking. He hardly ever had a proper conversation with me these days but perhaps now, away from home, he would be a bit nicer to me and Mother. Perhaps.

We went down to dinner together. As usual a pianist was playing softly in the corner and we looked at the elegant looking passengers in our dining room. There were many wealthy and famous people on board but they seemed embarrassed around us and did not pay us much attention. Word had spread and that seemed to irritate Raoul. At the end of the meal, the pianist approached our table and Raoul got up to greet him. However, he walked straight over to my Mother instead.

"Miss Daae! I heard you were on board! Why, this is such an honour. I am also from Paris and have heard so much about you. I understand you are making your American debut in New York soon?"

He was very polite and charming, and Mother quickly introduced him to Raoul and me.

"Oh, forgive me, you are Madame de Chagny, of course, not Miss Daae" he apologised sheepishly. Despite this, Raoul was soon bored of the conversation and made his excuses, heading in the direction of the bar. Soon the pianist also excused himself, as he was finished for the day and wanted to return to his cabin.

"Why has Father gone to the bar again? Doesn't he want to spend time with us?" I asked sadly, as we got up from the table.

"He just needs some time alone after everything that's happened. I just wish he wouldn't drink so much. Never mind, darling, let's go back to our stateroom and I'll tell you a few stories before bedtime."

"Will you tell me the one about how you and Meg sneaked all that food into the dormitory and had tummy aches the next morning?"

"I think _you'll_ have a tummy ache, with the size of that dessert you've just eaten!" she teased, and we headed off together.

I woke much later that night, to the sound of raised voices in the bedroom next to mine. I thought it had been part of my dream, but sadly it was real. Raoul seemed to be singing out of tune.

"You see?", he demanded, his speech slurred, "I can sing too! We could do a duet!"

"For heavens sake, keep your voice down!" Mother was telling him anxiously, "Gustave is next door-"

I did not hear any more for I dived under the covers and put my hands over my ears. _It'll be all right_ I told myself, clutching my stuffed bear. _Mother will get all that money for singing in the concert and we'll go home and everything will be just as it was before.._

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

There was not much to see up on deck, just water, so I spent most of my time playing, reading or working on my English. We had a brochure that Mister Y had sent us, probably after Mother wrote to accept his invitation, which told us all about Phantasma in more detail, and I was fascinated by the pictures. The two of us sat on the promenade deck on one of the sunnier days and looked through it together.

"Look! A roller coaster! Can we go on that, Mother? Please?"

She looked at the picture doubtfully.

"I don't know, Gustave, it looks very dangerous. Does that little train go all the way to the top of that big structure?"

"Yes, and then you go down the other side, really fast! Doesn't it look like fun?"

"I'm not sure.. And what does that Ghost Train do?"

"You go on another little train, only it stays on the ground this time, and you go around a dark hall filled with scary things – ghosts, skeletons… It says here it's the scariest train you'll ever ride!"

"I'm not sure about that either…"

"We'll go on it together, it'll be fine, Mother! Perhaps Father will come too. I wonder if Mister Y built all those things? He must be so clever if he did. Will we meet him, do you think?"

"I'm sure we will. It's his park after all, and we are his guests. But I'm sure he's very busy, so don't keep pestering him with questions. Because, knowing you, you will want to know how every single thing works!" She tickled me and I chuckled.

"We'll have a good time in Coney Island won't we, Mother?"

"Of course we will, darling. After the concert, we will have a proper holiday, the three of us, together. Maybe your father will take you around the park and go on those rides with you. It would be nice if you two could spend some time together."

I settled back against my mother's shoulder and thought of this mad, exciting place we were going to. It sounded like nothing else I had ever known.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Look, Gustave! It's the Statue of Liberty! It's just like you showed me in the brochure."

We were both standing at the rail, trying to catch our first distant glimpse of New York. It was the biggest statue I had ever seen, and I could see why it was so famous – it was the first thing that immigrants saw as they approached their new country. I was proud of the fact that it had been a gift from France and that it was designed by a Frenchman. Our smaller version paled in insignificance beside this giant. I thought of the poem I had read about it where she tells countries to keep their "storied pomp" and give to her "your huddled masses yearning to breathe free". _Are we still the storied pomp_ I wondered.

"Ellis Island can't be far away now. That's where the Immigration Hall is," Mother explained. I groaned. More waiting around. We had to return to our staterooms then, to get ourselves ready, but before heading inside I stole another glance at this new, exciting city and wondered how far Coney Island was from the docks. Soon we would be there... soon…


	7. Heaven and Hell by the Sea

**Here is the next chapter! Just to let you know as we head into LND territory - I will be making a couple of changes as it will be entirely from Gustave's perspective and he didn't witness everything, as you probably know. So there will be a few differences but the basic plot will be the same. Please read and review!**

Much to my relief there was no real delay when we docked later that afternoon. Efficient yet courteous medical officers boarded the ship when we arrived and gave us a brief examination in our staterooms. There were also some forms to be filled in, but it did not take long and as soon as the formalities were over, the officials gladly welcomed us to New York. I was proud that Mother and I could answer their friendly enquiries in English. Raoul's English was quite good but he did not seem to be in the mood for small talk.

It was a pity to be leaving this beautiful ship, but to be honest we were all looking forward to being on dry land again. We watched the captain bidding farewell to all the famous passengers – the Astors, the Vanderbilts, all those people that we usually read about in the newspapers and who were still trying to avoid us, even now. Dressed in our best clothes, we made our way to the gangplank where we would take our first steps on to American soil. But even before we got there, I could see the huge crowd gathered at the docking harbour. The arrival of a trans-Atlantic liner was such a huge event in those days and there were reporters and photographers lying in wait for stories and scoops, along with relatives and friends of the passengers.

"Typical! All the vultures of the yellow press here, all vying for gossip and scandal!" Raoul muttered darkly as we made our way down the gangplank, Mother following behind us. Camera bulbs flashed as we Raoul and I stood at last on the quayside and the reporters shouted questions at the other First Class passengers.

"Stand aside, stand aside!" he snapped at them as our luggage was dumped unceremoniously in front of us by the indifferent porters. They smirked knowingly as they held out their hands and looked at the small tip Raoul gave both of them, before disappearing quickly. "Money grabbing imbeciles! They knew I could hardly leave them without a tip in front of _that _lot.." he practically growled. He was in a terrible mood, as he had been for much of the journey.

"Here she comes!" one of the reporters shouted, and all turned to the gangplank as Mother stepped on to the harbour. In her pale blue dress and full length fur coat she was a picture of grace and elegance, as usual.

Questions were being fired at her, and one cocky reporter even asked her to sing, but when they made the cardinal error of addressing her as "Miss Daae" Raoul immediately retorted that "Her name is Madame du Chagny!" I suppose he did not like that his wife was the centre of attention in this country, unlike at home. He would not allow any pictures to be taken of her, or of me, and he demanded to know why no-one was here to meet us.

Just as he finished his last sentence, I saw something at the other side of the square, and nudged my mother. There was a… carriage of some kind, coming towards us. It was made from gold, pure gold, every inch of it! But that was not the most amazing thing – as it made its way past the gawping Press, we could see that there was nothing pulling it! No horses.. or animals of any kind, for that matter. It simply moved of its own volition!

Now, I was vaguely familiar with the idea of a "horseless carriage". Up until that point, I had only seen a couple of motor-cars on the streets of Paris, although I had no idea of how they worked. But those contraptions were noisy, dirty looking things that seemed to break down regularly. This carriage was nothing like that; indeed it practically _glided_ over to where we were waiting by the quayside and came to a graceful, noiseless halt. Raoul was griping again, but I hardly listened; I was so fascinated by this strange yet beautiful conveyance which looked like something out of a fairy tale. Indeed, I could almost imagine Cinderella travelling to the ball in it, although even she had something to pull it there.

Mother and I simply stared in amazement and as we watched, a door in the side opened and three of the strangest looking people I had ever seen emerged. A woman and two men; wearing odd black clothes with bizarre designs on them. One was large and muscular looking, with a collection of tattoos all over the visible parts of his body. The second man was tall and gangly looking, with a top hat and long moustache. And the woman was small and lithe, with a birdlike face and large bushy hair. They stood in a row and bowed to us elaborately. And then they spoke, or rather, sang, asking us if we were ready to begin the greatest journey of our lives…

Raoul stood there, his face like thunder. To his fury and embarrassment, the reporters were still there, busily taking notes and the photographers were capturing everything as well, probably unable to believe their luck. But before he could say another word, the large man was lifting our luggage on to the roof of the carriage and the other pair were ushering us inside, with elaborate gestures. Mother and I eagerly climbed on board and Raoul reluctantly joined us, angrily brushing away the trio's offer of help. They did not seem at all fazed by his rudeness. And then they themselves got back in and sat opposite us, and no sooner were we all seated than the magical carriage glided off.

There we were, the three of us sitting opposite these strange creatures, and soon we left the harbour behind us. Raoul sat looking out the window with his arms crossed, like a petulant child, for much of the journey but Mother and I were fascinated.

They seemed to speak as a trio as well, each saying a part of the sentence.

"Forgive us-"

"-Our new friends from across the sea-"

"-For not introducing ourselves"

"I am Mr Squelch, the Strongest Man in the World!"

"I am Miss Fleck, half woman, half bird, the trapeze artist!"

"I am Dr Gangle, and I call on everyone to roll up, roll up, for the greatest show in town!"

"We are part of Phantasma, where nothing is as is seems!" they chorused in unison, each giving us a little bow from their seated positions.

So they must work for Mister Y! And this carriage must be his too. What a strange place we were going to... Strange and yet wonderful…

"I am Christine, Vicomtess de Chagny. And this is my husband, Raoul, the vicomte, and our son, Gustave," Mother told them graciously. They nodded with mock formality to each of us, but Raoul continued to stare out the window, Mother becoming a little embarrassed at his rudeness.

Then Miss Fleck reached elegantly under the seat and produced a large parcel, tied with an elaborate bow. "For the little vicomte" she purred, in that strange voice of hers.

"From our master" added Mr Squelch.

"The great Mister Y" added Dr Gangle.

"This is for me? From Mister Y?" I gasped.

They nodded together, with strange grins on their faces.

"Gustave, where are your manners?" my mother asked me, "Thank the.. lady. Miss Fleck, wasn't it? And the gentlemen too."

"Thank you so much!" I told them, examining the parcel and wondering what it was. They nodded again. Such strange people, I thought. I had never met anyone like them before.

"Can I open it, Mother?"

"Wait until we get to the hotel, dear. And whenever we finally meet this Mister Y, you will have to thank him for your present in person."

The bizarre trio entertained us with funny songs, and told us of Phantasma where there were exciting rides and scary attractions, and a Hall of Mirrors where nothing looked like it was supposed to. They seemed to speak a little French as well, and drifted between the two languages with neither logic nor explanation. I am sure that people were pointing and staring at our mode of transport all the way through the district of Brooklyn until we got to Coney Island, but I never noticed.

Suddenly we glided to a halt and our three new acquaintances descended smoothly from our carriage, gesturing for us to follow.

"We are here, and not there-"

"And here is Phantasma-"

"And who knows what will happen now you are here and not there?"

Bewildered, we climbed out after them, wondering what on earth they were talking about. We appeared to be at the entrance of a hotel. The Phantasma Hotel, in fact, where we would be staying courtesy of Mister Y. Our luggage was lifted down and the two men bowed to us, Miss Fleck offered a deep curtsy and with an elaborate wave of Dr Gangle's tall top hat, they boarded the magical carriage again and disappeared into the park itself.

It was getting dark now but we could see the carriage glowing in the distance like an enormous star. The hotel was on the edge of the park, and this infuriated Raoul even further. "I don't see why we have to stay in the park as well,", he grumbled. But I was not listening; I was looking at that magical wonderland ahead of us, now closing for the night. There was an enormous Ferris wheel near the entrance, and I got a brief glimpse of some of the rides and attractions I had read about.

But I had no time to take in anything in detail. A porter was waiting patiently to carry our luggage and the three of us followed him into the hotel. The young man at the front desk was polite and welcoming, even to an impatient Raoul, but no, he told him, Mister Y was merely the owner and did not usually visit the hotel. He was very sorry but he did not know when Raoul would be able to talk to him.

"Outrageous! Having us met by circus freaks! It'll be all over the papers tomorrow. And sending that ridiculous contraption! Has he any idea how humiliating that is to people of our status? I will find this Mister Y tomorrow and I will be complaining to him in the strongest of terms!"

But it hadn't been humiliating at all. It was strange, yes, but it was magical too, and I could not wait to see more of it.

We went upstairs in the lift, which would have been exciting in other circumstances, but it seemed terribly ordinary now. We were staying on the top floor and it was a large, well-appointed suite, with two bedrooms, like on the ship and a beautiful sitting room with a cream sofa and armchairs, and a table at which we could take our tea. Some flowers were placed in a lovely blue and white vase, as a present to Mother, judging by the note she found, and there was a present for Raoul too, although I don't know if he even looked at it.

But I hardly noticed my luxurious surroundings, being so fascinated with my present which I had carried upstairs myself. Tearing it open, I shook the box inside, trying to guess what it was, as Raoul grumbled some more about how awful Coney Island was and Mother tried to soothe him. I opened the box and lifted something out, wrapped in paper.

It was a strange object – a monkey dressed in Middle Eastern robes of deep red and he was seated on a bench in front of a miniature piano. Both stood on a disc-shaped silver platform and I turned it around, trying to understand what exactly it was. Then, I saw a key in the monkeys back and turned it as far as it would go. When I released it, it turned back around on some kind of spring and a tune began to play. The monkey's paws were moving up and down and the keys were pressing down, making it look like he was playing the piano.

"Look, Father, see the toy they gave me!" I cried in delight. He was complaining bitterly about having to come to America and I desperately wanted to make him happy somehow.

Each note that I heard was musically correct – it corresponded exactly to the notes that the monkey was "playing". I had never seen such a toy.

"Father, come here and see this! You wind it up with a key and it plays music. Come and look at it!"

"Tell the boy the answer is no!"

My heart almost broke. It was always "the boy", never "my son".

"I need some air", he announced brusquely and pushed past Mother to the door. "Please, Raoul, don't drink any more-"she begged, but he was gone.

We both knew what "getting some air" really meant. I ached right then, for despite everything, despite all he had done to us and the way he spoke to me, I still longed for his approval, his attention, his love.

I sat on the floor, the tune having faded, and stared at my new toy. Mother was sitting on the couch, her head in her hands, but I could only think of my own sadness at that moment.

"Father never plays with me. Doesn't he love me?"

Smiling a little, Mother got up and sat down on the floor beside me. She examined my toy monkey and let me show her what it did.

"Your father loves you very much, as do I", she told me gently. "Things have been very difficult for him lately. But you see, people love in different ways. Not everyone likes giving hugs or lots of affection, but it doesn't mean they don't love anyone."

I snuggled against her and she sang me a song about how love was not always beautiful and how I should look with my heart, not with my eyes. We sang it together too and I was comforted by her words, as always.

"Time for bed, darling" she told me after a while. "Go and get yourself ready while I start unpacking and I will come and tuck you in. Oh, and here is your nightshirt. And your little friend of course."

She handed me my nightshirt and my bear from out of my suitcase. Thinking it would please her, I wound up the monkey again as I left the sitting room. It played a different tune this time, one I did not know. If I had only looked behind me I would have seen Mother's bewildered expression as she heard a tune that she never thought she would hear again.

After a little while she joined me and sat on a chair beside my bed.

"It will be a busy day tomorrow. I will have to go to rehearsals and do my voice exercises. You will need to bring a book along with you, or something to keep you amused."

"I will" I told her, "But when do we get to go on the rides?"

"I don't know how much free time I'll have, Gustave. We'll see, but I promise you, the day after the concert, we will go on whatever ride you choose. Even the Ghost Train!"

I felt a bit happier then and, for once, I was too tired for a story so Mother simply stayed with me until I fell asleep.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO O

_I was standing on a beach, with the wind howling and rain pelting down, but there was no shelter anywhere. Then suddenly, a dark shadow grabbed me from behind and began dragging me to the water's edge, my feet trailing in the sand. A voice, a female voice was laughing as I screamed for help. The water around my feet was getting deeper as I was dragged even further out, the waves crashing over my body and now the shadow was pushing my head under the water... I couldn't breathe! And although I struggled, those strong hands were still holding me under and I could hear that horrible laughter again..._

Terrified, I woke up, gasping for breath. And a new terror struck me – this was not my bedroom! With my heart beating rapidly, I struggled to sit up and looked around me frantically. Then I remembered – we were in the hotel in Coney Island, not on the ship or at home.

I could not stay in this unfamiliar bedroom. Without another thought, I jumped of bed and ran into the sitting room.

"Mother, I'm scared! I had a horrible nightmare. There was someone dragging me into the sea and trying to drown me-"

She ran to me and put her arms around me. "It's all right Gustave, it's all right, you're safe now," she assured me, and I slowly I began to calm down. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a black pillar in the middle of the room, which hadn't been there before.

"Come and meet a friend of mine" she told me gently, guiding me towards the pillar. Now I realised that it was in fact a man, dressed in a black suit and cloak, with his back turned to us. Quickly he turned to face the two of us and walked towards me with graceful steps.

"Welcome to Phantasma; I am Mister Y" he announced with a deep, melodic voice full of authority.

"This is Gustave, my son", Mother told him politely.

He gave me a strong, firm handshake and I looked up at him. Looked up is the right phase here; he positively towered over me. "How do you do, young man?" he asked me, allowing his gloved hand to linger in mine briefly. I swallowed, trembling a little. Even this simple phrase carried so much power and authority! That voice.. It was entrancing, mesmerising; it was like no other voice I had ever heard. And that was not the most intriguing thing about him; he wore a mask of white porcelain, which covered half his face from his hairline to his jaw. His black hair was carefully combed and the visible half of his face was pale, with small lines around his mouth and eye.

All I could do was stare. It was a good thing that he spoke perfect French as I seemed to have forgotten all my English from sheer nerves. Then finally I spoke.

"You are Mister Y?"

"Indeed I am, young Gustave. And it is a pleasure to meet you."

"Then, all this… is yours?" I waved my hand to indicate the park outside.

"All of it. Every inch"

I suddenly realised that my jaw had dropped open. This truly was Mister Y! Finally I was standing in front of him... and I was shaking like a leaf! Mother watched us both, her eyes moving between both of us as we spoke in turn.

"But that's.. that's wonderful!" I could not take my eyes off that white mask. Then, a thought suddenly occurred to me, "Th-thank you for my present. It is beautiful."

"Why, you are most welcome! And now, my young vicomte, I am the owner of this park, as I said, and I can grant any wish that you may have. Anything at all."

I thought of the Hall of Mirrors and the Ghost Train and all the rides that I wanted to go on. But what if I could go to all the secret parts of the park, where visitors never go to?

"Sir, if you please, I would like to see all the mysteries of the park, all the hidden corners.."

A shiver ran down my spine as he looked down at me. Those eyes.. How can I describe how they burned into me? For a moment, everything else ceased to exist, save for this awe struck child, just awakened from a nightmare, and this powerful, mysterious being.

_Who was he?_

I was jolted back to reality by his reply. "Then that is precisely what you shall see. But not until tomorrow, mind! The park is closed for the night and you must be patient."

"Yes sir. And thank you very much.. Mister Y"

"Back to bed now, Gustave," my mother told me, and I kissed her cheek, bid her and Mister Y goodnight and made my way back into my bedroom. My nightmare was all but forgotten. I had met Mister Y and he was going to show me around the park tomorrow! Now I would learn all its secrets. Maybe I would learn how that carriage moved by itself?

But why did Mother never tell me that he was a friend of hers? And why did he wear that mask? Was it part of a costume? Never mind, I would find out the answers tomorrow, surely, as I explored the park. Tired but happy, I climbed into bed and snuggled my bear against me. Tomorrow was going to be a real adventure.. Tomorrow…

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Of course, if I had been able to look beyond my own childish needs and desires, I would have seen that Mother was uncomfortable and even nervous in Mister Y's presence. Or even that she too had been upset by Raoul's anger that night. But that did not occur to me until much later. Too distracted by toys and amusement parks, like the immature child I was. All the clues that I never put together, all the things that happened that I was not aware of until it was too late…

But I am aware that I am looking back in hindsight, much wiser now. What could I have done, even if I had known the truth about Mother and.. Papa.. on that first night? Fate had already set a chain of events in motion and I can only record how I saw it, at that time.

And now the past fades, before my eyes, as I glance at the clock.

Today, it is the here-and-now that requires my immediate attention – my dental appointment, errands to the post office, the pharmacy and that new supermarket, someone coming round to fix the TV later… So for the moment, I shall return to the mundane world and leave my younger self sleeping, blissfully unaware, in that hotel room in Coney Island, long ago.


	8. Old Friends and New Terrors

Raoul did not join us for breakfast the next morning. Mother assured me that he was "very tired" and just needed to rest for a while, after all the travelling. But I had other things on my mind, as we sat in the elegant dining room enjoying bacon, eggs and some items called "waffles". Mother seemed worried and distracted, hardly touching her food.

"Mother, why didn't you tell me that Mister Y is a friend of yours?"

"Gustave, please don't talk with your mouth full."

I quickly swallowed my bacon before continuing. "You told me last night he was a friend, but you never said it when we were planning to come here, or on the ship."

She blushed, and played with the napkin, then picked up her fork again and pushed the egg around her plate.

"I-I didn't know it would be him.. I mean, he wasn't.. he had a different name when I knew him."

This was intriguing. "A different name? Why is he called Mister Y now?"

"It's a play on the English word "mystery". Mister, followed by a Y. You understand?"

I nodded. "What's his real name? Is he from Paris? Is he a friend of Father's too?"

"Gustave, finish your breakfast please", she told me irritably, "I have a busy day ahead and I don't have time for all these questions!"

I looked down at the table, biting my lip. This was more like something Father would say!

"Oh, darling, I didn't mean to be angry with you," she told me apologetically, squeezing my hand, "It's just I'm worried about the rehearsals and the concert itself and.."

"It's all right, Mother. Everyone is going to love you tomorrow night!"

"Thank you, dear. Now eat up and we'll go back to our room to get ready."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

But the questions still lingered in my mind. And, most importantly, when would Mister Y come and take us around the park? He'd never mentioned a time to either me or Mother. After creeping around the room trying not to wake Raoul as we got ready to go out, we came back downstairs in the lift.

"Americans call this an elevator," I explained to Mother proudly. We could not understand why the Americans had different words for certain things than the British.

She asked directions to the theatre from the man at the front desk, a different man from last night and we set off into the park together. People were already arriving, buying tickets and cups of coffee from the little café.

"I hope Louis is looking after Alfie," I wondered aloud, as a middle aged couple walked past with a small dog on a lead.

"I'm sure he is; he adores that dog! Why don't you buy him a present? There are a couple of souvenir stands around the park; perhaps you could find something to take home to him? We'll have a look around later, if we get the chance."

I nodded, humming a tune to myself. "What's that tune you're humming?" Mother asked me.

"It's just a song that's been going around in my head for a few days." She laughed softly and put her arm around me. "Oh Gustave, you've always got a song in your head! My little prodigy."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The theatre was large and imposing, but the architecture was nothing like what I had seen in Paris. Indeed it was surprisingly functional looking; just somewhere to entertain the tourists.

"Mother, when are we meeting Mister Y again? He promised to show us around."

"You need to have patience, Gustave! He is very busy and I'm sure he'll send for us when he's ready."

I tried not to sulk as we entered the theatre and gazed around the empty foyer. Mother looked lost. "No doorman? Very strange. Goodness me, it is big isn't it? "

"Perhaps he'll be waiting for us here?"

"Who? Oh, yes.. Gustave, for the moment I have to find my dressing room, the director, the stage manager…"

We wandered down a corridor past one of the doors leading into the auditorium where a rehearsal was taking place. Some young ladies were singing a horrible, noisy song called Bathing Beauties. We peered inside curiously. They were all wearing garish costumes, in fact some were not wearing much at all and we quickly moved on. I had never been in any of Paris' famous cabaret clubs but my grandmother often complained about these cheap vulgar places, calling them "The gateway to hell". Just then, one of the ladies, dressed in gold and plumes, appeared from another door near ours, and Mother tried to get her attention.

"Oh miss, excuse me? Could you tell me where-"

She got no further as the young lady exclaimed in delight:

"Oh my goodness, can it be? It is! Oh I can't believe it!"

Mother looked confused. "I'm sorry, have we met-"

"Yes! Don't you remember? Oh Christine, have a guess!" she shrieked, lapsing into French in her excitement.

Mother looked for a moment at the excitable young lady and gave a shriek of recognition.

"Meg!"

"Yes!" she laughed, gripping Mother's arms, "Oh, my dear friend!"

"Dearest Meg! I never thought I'd see you again! Oh this is wonderful!"

I watched the two of them hug each other, feeling bewildered.

When the hug ended, Mother remembered that I was still standing there. "Oh Meg, this is Gustave – my son."

She pushed me forward gently. "Gustave, you remember me telling you about Meg Giry?"

Meg Giry... Yes of course I did! Her best friend, back at the Opera House, all those years ago!

I nodded and gave her a little bow. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Giry"

She chuckled. "Such a well-mannered boy! And so French, with his cute little bow. I'd nearly forgotten all that... Well, look at you Christine. A mother!"

"And you, a star!" she replied, nodding towards the auditorium.

Just then a tall thin woman dressed in black appeared as if out of nowhere. "Meg, we're going to need you again soon – oh my goodness! Christine!"

"Madame Giry! You're both here, I can't believe it!"

More hugging followed, but the older lady was not the kind to shriek, thankfully. She shook my hand solemnly and I bowed to her. What a vacation this was turning out to be!

Madame Giry and her daughter... I felt like I knew them already. But to be honest, they had always seemed more like characters in a story, like Snow White or Little Lotte. Here they were in the flesh!

Little did I know that in a few days I would hate the name of Meg Giry with every fibre of my being and I would go on hating it for many years to come.

"Come, let us go into my office and talk some more" Madame Giry said, ushering us all down the corridor.

Suddenly a male voice was heard from behind us. "Christine? Hello? Are you here?

Raoul..

Mother rushed off and brought him back by the hand. "You'll never believe who's here! Look, here's Raoul as well!" she laughed, and there were more shrieks from Meg, and handshakes and laughter.

We all went into Madame Giry's small office, with assurances that Mother could start her rehearsal very soon. Stories and reminiscences soon followed, interspersed with laughter. As we sat in the warm, cramped room, I began to grow slightly bored, my initial excitement wearing off.

"Oh of course I always knew about those midnight feasts of yours!" Madame Giry was saying, "An increase in whispering and giggling the day before and a sudden outbreak of tummy aches the day after!"

I listened for as long as I could, then started shifting about restlessly. Raoul seemed to be engaged in the conversation, which was a good thing, I supposed.

"Yes, I've been engaged to sing at the closing concert tomorrow-" Mother was saying.

The bombshell was dropped. Meg leaned forward, her face aghast. "But that's impossible! I'm singing tomorrow, it's all been arranged."

Mother and Raoul looked awkward as the other two protested in unison. The atmosphere was growing less friendly by the minute as they tried to explain about the letter from Mister Y, the aria he had sent, their agreement...

Madame Giry and Raoul looked at each other. "A word, if you please sir. In private", she ordered him sharply. They both got up and left.

"Gustave, go to the kitchen at the end of this corridor. There's some nice cookies there for our break time; tell them I sent you and they'll let you have some. There's lemonade too," Meg told me quickly.

"And come straight back here when you've finished," Mother added. Obediently I got up and left the room, thanking Meg as I did so. I was not sure what was happening but I was glad to be out of there. Closing the door behind me, I looked around to see Raoul and Madame Giry standing near the stage door, having a disagreement of their own.

"Who is he? Do you know anything about this?" I heard Raoul asking crossly.

"It's… him"

Him? What did she mean?

But Raoul's fury at that word was unmistakable. I hurried down the corridor to the door marked "Kitchen". Some cookies and lemonade would be nice, while the adults had their strange conversations. I thought I could hear footsteps behind me but I kept going.

My hand was on the door handle. I could hear loud female voices within and a male voice too, all talking a break from the rehearsal. Just then, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Spinning around in fright, I came face to face with Miss Fleck. Her two associates were standing behind her, with those strange grins on their faces.

"Come with us, young Gustave-"

"The master, the great Mister Y, is waiting to meet you-"

"And he has instructed us to escort you to him..."

"Come along…" they purred in unison.

I glanced behind me.

"My parents-" I began, but they were already ushering me along, walking behind me.

"We shall return you very soon-"

"And anyway, we shall tell them where you are-"

"And all shall be well, while you are in our care..."

I was mesmerised as they led me out of the hotel and through the park. Miss Fleck walked in front, while the other two walked by my side.

"I think my mother should have come with me.."

Miss Fleck turned to me. "Our master was very specific about bringing you to him _alone_…"

I shuddered.

They lead me around the side of the park, avoiding crowds, although I could hear sounds of happy laughter and carousel music at a distance. It was a nice day but I was starting to feel uneasy.

They brought me to a tall tower, seemingly with no door, but I watched in amazement as Dr Gangle pushed open a section of the wall – a door of sorts - which was completely camouflaged.

Inside it was dark, but I could see a spiral staircase leading upwards.

"Follow us, little vicomte" they chorused in those eerie voices.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked nervously. Mr Squelch gently ushered me forward, and with all of us inside the door closed, as if on a spring. I gulped.

"To our master, of course," he told me, "Follow us.."

There seemed to be no other option so I followed them all the way up that never-ending staircase, with the three of them urging me to hurry. This was not what I had imagined, not at all.. I'd imagined Mother and I being shown around behind the scenes, finding out how the Ghost Train operated, how the strange mirrors were built, all that kind of thing. I shouldn't have come with them. Mother was probably looking for me right now. Father too. I would be in so much trouble…

The stairs eventually led through an opening, into a dark room. The trio climbed through the opening and allowed me to do the same, before starting to descend the stairs again. "Wait.." I told them. They looked at me. "Is this where Mister Y lives?"

"He works here", Miss Fleck purred, "And now, he is waiting for you and we must disappear…Farewell, our young friend.."

I watched in amazement as they seemed to float away, down the long staircase. Having got my breath back, I looked around this strange, cold room, which seemed to be shrouded in darkness.

Then, over in the corner, I saw a black shadow with a white mask gleaming in the dark, and it was moving towards me with slow, careful movements. Mister Y..

Nervously, I took a step back. I'd been looking forward to this meeting and now…

"Don't be afraid, Gustave."

That voice! Shivers ran down my spine at the sound of it. It was mesmerizing, hypnotic...

"W-hat is this place?"

"This is my realm, my young friend. I call it the Aerie. This is where art and music and beauty reign. All my illusions are created here, far above the crowds and the noise below."

There were strange shapes and contraptions everywhere. Was this what he had promised me? To see all the secrets, all the mysteries?

"Why don't you take a look around while I finish off my work?" he asked, returning to the corner where I could see a desk of some kind.

"Thank you" I murmured, glancing around at this dark room and wondering it might contain.

Almost immediately my eyes were drawn to an elegant piano in one corner and I moved slowly towards it. "May I play it? I asked the shadow tentatively.

"Does the young vicomte play?" he asked me in astonishment.

I nodded and sat at the beautiful instrument. It seemed so long since I had played the piano and I thought sadly of our own one back in the chateau, silent for the time being.

He was walking slowly towards me now but I was no longer afraid. Without thinking, I played the little melody that had been going around in my head for days. Finally, I could release it! Just simple words but it was enough.

"Beautiful… It's all so beautiful.."

I played those six notes over again, without the words this time.

"What's this?" Mister Y was asking me, intrigued.

"Just a song in my head." I replied distractedly. "I often have melodies and notes in my head… They just come to me, without warning, and I have to play them, or write them down. Sometimes I'm playing outside or eating and they just come.."

I looked at him, expecting the same look that I got from practically everyone I said that to, except Mother: incredulity, bewilderment, the look that said "You strange boy".

But he stood opposite me, fixing me with those eyes of his. "You hear melodies too?"

"Yes.. " I breathed, "And I cannot rest until they are written"

"Nor can I. Music.. It is everything to me, and here, on the island, I cannot create the songs in my head, or my heart. But they exist nonetheless and in this room alone, they come alive."

I could only stare, yet again. Someone else who felt as I did about music! Not even Mother shared this dark obsession to create.

He held out a gloved hand to me. "Come, Gustave, let me show you everything."

I stood, shaking a little, but my fear vanished when that hand took mine and lead me from the piano.

So many things in that room! Things I could not have imagined. There was a skeleton automaton that moved around the room, apparently of its own accord. There was a large version of the toy he had given me, with a large monkey playing a strange eerie tune. And a net suspended from the ceilings with skulls inside (I hoped they were not real ones) which sang another strange melody that I had never heard.

And it was all strange, unlike anything I had ever seen in the world I came from. And yet it was.. "Beautiful.." I breathed. He was watching me, gauging my reaction and his visible eyebrow was raised. "Yes, it is, isn't it?"

"This child.." he murmured. He stood before me, gazing down upon my small frame and to my surprise he put his hands on my shoulders. "Gustave, how old are you?" He gripped me tightly as if everything depended on my answer.

"Ten," I whispered.

He gasped. "Ten.. Ten years old!"

He reeled backwards, putting his hands over his mouth. "No! It's not possible! It isn't possible! And yet.."

His breathing was ragged, and now he was on his knees in front of me, clutching at his chest. For a moment I thought he was going to have a heart attack and I started to panic.

"Mister Y? Are you all right?"

"It can't be.. it can't…He is beautiful, too beautiful…"

His hands were still over his face and my fear was increasing by the second. "Do you need me to get help?" I gasped.

Slowly he rose, towering over me again and took some deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

His eyes never left me as he took my hand once more.

As we looked around together, he questioned me, with breathless enthusiasm. His voice was dark, harsh, his eyes were searching me. Even his questions frightened yet enthralled me.

"Have you ever looked out into the night and felt things, things you couldn't express? Have you had dark thoughts, which scared you but thrilled you all the same? Ever wanted to leave the normal, everyday world behind and explore the darkness?"

My heart was racing frantically. I thought of the forest on the estate, how I had looked out my window at night and wondered what was happening under the cover of darkness. How I had sat in that forest and had chills at the sensations I felt. All the music in my head, the Snow Queen and her dark beauty, all the things that I could never explain or describe..

"Yes, I have felt all those things!" I exclaimed.

He spoke to me of longing and darkness and beauty that lay beneath the surface and I understood; I understood because we both felt the same. At last.. All these years of feeling like an outsider, like the Ugly Duckling in the story.. Here was someone who shared my love of adventure and danger and strange things. I felt a million miles from the drawing rooms and tea parties and decorum of my upper class world..

"You are not afraid? You can face all this?"

"Yes, it is everything l I've ever dreamed about, all here in this room! And you feel the same! Oh, at last!"

Slowly he knelt before me again, looking deep into my eyes with such hope, such anticipation.

"You brave, brave boy… You can see the beauty underneath!"

With that he took off his mask.

Oh God.. How can I describe how I felt at seeing that face for the first time? It was to become so familiar to me, so normal, but at that moment all I could see were the hideous scars on the right side of his face, like he had been torn apart by an animal. Those veins and scars and that deformed mouth and most frightening of all there was a piece missing from his right temple and _his skull was exposed!_

I screamed.

In blind terror, I ran for the stairs, away from this hideous monster. But a pair of arms caught me and I struggled against them, afraid I would be trapped here forever..

"Gustave, it's me!" cried my mother's voice, and I flung myself into her embrace. "It's horrible, horrible!" I wept.

"It's all right, everything's all right" she told me soothingly and I began to calm down a little, still clinging to her.

Just then, I noticed Miss Fleck standing beside the opening from the staircase.

"Take him back to the hotel, please," Mother told her sternly. I started moving towards the stairs, but her hand on my shoulder stopped me. "Wait for me in the foyer and _don't _move from there," she told me in a firm voice.

I didn't even turn around. Hastily I followed Miss Fleck down that spiral staircase, eager to get away from that.. monster! As I hurried down the stairs, I thought I heard raised voices from the room above and Mister Y asking "Did you think I wouldn't guess?"

My strange companion did not speak until we were outside where the other two were waiting for us, both looking awkward and apologetic.

"Your mother was very angry with us-"

"When we told her of your whereabouts-"

"And she made us bring her here immediately"

They were trying to stay in character, but I could tell they were truly repentant. They walked with their heads down and shoulders slumped. I was too distracted by the thought of that hideous face to attempt any conversation.

I followed my strange companions back to the hotel. "We are sorry, little vicomte," Miss Fleck told me ruefully, "How were you to know that the master is a freak, just like us?"

I stared at her. "That's why he wears the mask?"

She nodded. "That is why he lives here. Where else could he live? Or us, for that matter?"

Her voice sounded sorrowful rather than eerie, and I could not think of a reply.

They left me at the door of the hotel, eager to get away from the crowds and I watched as they disappeared with apparent ease.

I sat glumly on a sofa in the foyer, trying to work out what had happened.

Mister Y was just like me. _No!_ I told myself. _I don't look like that!_ But all he had said, it was everything I had felt but had no words for. And all his creations!

And what about Mother? When we left, she had stayed behind. What were they talking about? What about Raoul and Madame Giry's conversation earlier? Did they all know Mister Y from years ago, and why was Raoul so angry? And that face.. I could not erase it from my mind. Even though I had seen deformities on the streets of Paris, this was unimaginable. And yet, it was not completely unfamiliar. Where had I seen it before?

I sat on that sofa, unable to think of any answers. Who was this Mister Y? Mother didn't have any male friends. All the men she knew were either employees or friends of Father's. And I certainly would remember if he had visited the chateau. Why was she so secretive? Had he done something bad to them both in the past? I had no reason to think that he was a secret lover. Mother never went anywhere without me or Raoul, or both of us. As far as I knew, she'd never been courted before her reunion with him at the Opera House. At the time, I hardly considered it anyway, such was my innocence.

So I was very confused by the time Mother came for me, looking flustered and nervous. "Were you talking to Mister Y all this time? Did you have an argument with him?" I asked her hesitantly.

"I have been reprimanding him for luring you away from me. I told him it was completely unacceptable and he has apologised for his lack of consideration. His… assistants will be reprimanded also. I was very angry with them when they told me where you were, let me tell you."

I looked down at the ground in my shame.

"You should not have gone with them, Gustave. You are old enough and bright enough to know better. We are in a strange, unfamiliar city and we hardly know those people. Do not go with them again. I have told them not to take you somewhere without me again, and you must promise me not to wander off with any other strangers."

"I promise, Mother. And – I'm sorry"

She paused but I did not look up. "Are you all right dear?" she asked more gently, sitting beside me.

"Yes, just a bit shocked… Mother, did you know Mister Y looked like.. that?"

"Yes, I did." She looked at the floor, closing her eyes, "Gustave, what happened?"

"He showed me all his inventions and let me play his piano and asked me things."

"What kind of things?"

How could I explain? I tried to, but she seemed confused. Confused, but not at all surprised. She just sighed, putting her head in her hands. "Yes, you do have a lot in common, don't you?" she whispered. She looked at me.

"He can't help how he looks, you know. You remember that old man that begs at the market sometimes? The one whose face was burned in a fire? Haven't I told you not to be afraid of him, that you shouldn't judge someone by their appearance?"

I did remember him, but this was different. That face was worse than anything I had ever seen. And now I remembered where I saw it. My nightmare, a long time ago now but suddenly real, the one where a monster had been chasing me through the forest and made me look at his hideous face.. But I could not tell Mother this. She had enough to worry about.

She sighed. "I have to go back to rehearsals now, my dear. Promise me you will stay where I can see you."

"I promise"

I meant it. I truly did.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

So many things I did not understand! Again, I only received an edited version of what went on in that Aerie. But would it have made a difference? How could I have guessed the truth?

Tonight I am alone in the house, with just the ticking of the clock in the background. Looking back on that strange day, I can see another clock, invisible to us all, ticking away, counting down the time until… But that story must wait.

Tonight, I leave aside my journal for a while. Ignoring the books on the shelf that my family think are "suitable for my age group" I unearth my well-thumbed copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula. Yes, after all these years, I am still enthralled by the beauty underneath…


	9. Hastening to its End

**Here's Chapter 9! It's quite long, with a lot happening and it was probably the hardest to write so far. All comments are welcome. Just to let you know - most of this story is based on the West End production and the original soundtrack, but as you'll see later, I've borrowed a few elements from the Australian version. Some of the changes are my own. Please tell me what you think!**

I spent much of the rest of that day in the theatre, where Mother could keep an eye on me to some extent. She was busy for most of that time, with warm-ups, scales, making sure she could project her voice sufficiently and becoming familiar with the stage.

I had finished my Jules Verne novel but there were parts I wanted to read again. I also watched the other performers – Miss Fleck on her trapeze, Mr Squelch lifting a variety of heavy objects piled on top of each other and Meg's dancing troupe with their irritating song. The other girls simpered and fawned over me, calling me "cutie" and "sweetie pie", amid lots of cheek pinching. I was glad when we had to go back to the hotel for luncheon and left quickly, wondering why girls had to be so silly, even when they were grown up.

Mother seemed distracted over luncheon and I tried not to annoy her. But my questions remained in my mind. She did, however, reassure me that her disagreement with Meg had simply been a silly misunderstanding and that they were_ both_ performing at the concert.

Meg seemed to be in a cheerful, friendly mood when we returned. In fact, she was almost _too _friendly towards us. In between her rehearsals, she brought me to the theatre kitchen for milk and cookies and while we were there chatted to me about, well, everything really – my home, my lessons, what games I liked playing, all kinds of things.

The biggest change in behaviour came from Madame Giry though. True, she was not an affectionate person, but she had been friendly and pleasant yesterday. Today she hardly spoke to us, except in the most formal tone. And that stare.. Each time I saw her, she gave me an icy stare that could have frozen me on the spot. She was very cold towards Mother too, which was surprising. Didn't she practically bring her up, in the Opera House, and care for her?

She was in charge of the dancers, and I thought this a bit odd, considering she had taught ballet in Paris. When I asked Mother about this, she said she didn't know, but I think she felt a little disappointed with her old friends.

That evening at dinner, Raoul joined us late. "Where have you been?" Mother asked him irritably, "I was hoping you would take Gustave around Phantasma today."

"Why would I want to look around that hell hole? It's bad enough we have to stay in it. I've been..meeting up with friends."

She looked at me and then at her husband, and said nothing.

After the dessert was served, Father berated me for wandering off earlier.

"Raoul, it is fine, Gustave and I have discussed this and it will not be happening again."

"I'm sorry, Father, it was just that Mister Y-"

"Mister Y? What did he have to do this?" He glared at his wife. "You never told me _he _was involved!" He practically spat the words out, and I could see people starting to look over at our table. "Raoul, not here, I'll explain later."

After our meal, Mother was tired and a little worried, but she still managed to take me around the park, which was staying open until later this evening. I found a little shop selling souvenirs and bought a toy soldier which marched when you wound it up. Louis would love it! It was fascinating and for this reason Mother took it off me for safe keeping. "Best make sure it gets home to Louis and you don't decide you want it instead!" she smiled.

We were both confused by the different currency but I was determined to get used to it and helped Mother count out the right amount to each attendant. I went on the spinning teacups, which seemed a bit tame, and the swingboats. But Mother was yawning now, and eager to go back to the hotel, so I followed her. The big rides would have to wait until our free day!

After I had bathed and got ready for bed, Mother came and tucked me in, as usual.

"What story would you like tonight, dear?"

"Mother, did Mister Y work at the Opera House?"

She sighed. "You are determined to find out about him aren't you?"

"I'm just curious."

"Well… yes, I suppose he did work at the Opera House, in a way... He taught me to sing."

"But that's wonderful! Did he teach Meg as well?"

"No, only me."

"But why does Father hate him so much?"

"Oh, Gustave, I think you should get some sleep and stop worrying about the past."

But I did not think that I would be able to sleep, not with all the mysteries in my head.

"I just need to get through the concert tomorrow, dear. It's very important to us, as you know."

"I know, Mother." I just wanted to see her happy again. That was all I wanted. Tomorrow she would sing, Mister Y would pay her the money, as agreed, and we would go home.

"Mother, everything will be all right when we go home won't it? Father will pay off his debts and the servants will come back-"

"I'm not sure about that part, Gustave, they have probably found other positions by now. But I don't mind helping Adele and Berthe with the chores; we had to do chores when I was living in the Opera House after all."

"Will I still have to go away to school? I'd like to go to the village school, with Louis and the other boys."

"I don't know, dear. Perhaps. We will have to wait and see."

"I'll still have to take over the estate, won't I?"

"Well, I suppose you will, if everything starts to improve for us, and all the debts are paid. " Noticing my glum face, she put her arms around me and held me close.

"Gustave, it doesn't matter to me what you become. A vicomte, a sailor, musician, architect.." She cupped my face in her hands and looked into my eyes. "I will always, _always_ be proud of you, whatever happens. Such a wonderful, kind boy.. You know, sometimes I have this silly wish that you would stay as an innocent little boy forever... You won't, of course. But I just know that you will become a fine young man. I know you sometimes have strange thoughts and ideas, and I don't always understand them, but I love you, _all_ of you, and always will."

"I love you too, Mother, so much," I whispered, clinging to her; my one rock in the midst of all this uncertainty.

I hope with all my heart that I have made her proud.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I remember it was warm and sunny that day; the day my old life ended.

We had breakfast in the dining room as usual. Father didn't join us; I head him and Mother talking loudly last night about the mornings' events, and he had stormed out.

It was much like any other day really; I wish I could say that there was a sense of foreboding with ominous symbols everywhere; that Mother's tealeaves were in the shape of a gun perhaps. But no, nothing.

When we got to the theatre, I saw Meg and her mother over in a corner, having a heated discussion. Meg was clearly upset and slammed the door on her way out. I wish I'd seen that there was something wrong, right there and then, but I didn't. Madame Giry glared at me when she saw me looking in her direction and I hastily buried my nose in my book. She continued to be cold and distant towards the two of us, and it puzzled me. Had I offended her without realising?

Meg returned to the auditorium a little later, more composed now and as friendly as ever. _Too_ friendly; I realise that now. She had some new ideas for her performance and Madame Giry was keen for her to explain them to everyone. When the rehearsal was up and running she strolled over to Mother.

"Christine, I'm not needed here for another hour; why don't I take Gustave around the park? I'm sure he would prefer that to sitting in here again?"

Yes, that sounded a much better option so it was all arranged.

It was fun, I'll have to admit. I slid down the helter-skelter twice, then went on the swingboats again and bought a postcard with the Statue of Liberty on it. Meg treated me to my first hot dog and my first stick of candy floss. "Yuck, it's just sugar!" I complained. "That's why children like it", she grinned.

We sat on a bench and continued yesterdays' chat about life in the chateau. She listened with almost exaggerated interest as I told her about Louis and the things we got up to, about music and the books I liked. She nodded frantically with wide eyes as I told her about Alfie - "Oh, I love dogs too!" - and shook her head sadly as I explained how we'd had to sell my beloved pony a few months ago – "oh, you poor thing!"

She was keen to know about Mother, and I answered her questions in complete innocence.

"And your Mother brings you into Paris, to a café and the park! And all those lovely stores that she buys her dresses in. Such a lady of leisure!" she remarked, and I thought I could hear a trace of sarcasm.

I did try to explain that things were different now, with most of our money gone, but she quickly changed the subject. We talked about the Ferris Wheel and some of the other rides.

"But tell me, have you no nanny?" she enquired.

"I did when I was very little but Mother says that they had different opinions on how to raise a child. So she got a position with a different family."

The maids were blunter about it – they remembered this nanny as "a nosy, interfering old hag" but I didn't tell Meg that.

"That's unusual for a family like, well.. a family like yours."

I shrugged. "I don't mind. Mother looks after me, or one of the maids. And most nannies are horrible anyway."

She laughed at this.

"So you have no-one to look after you here in New York?"

"Yes, Mother of course!"

She said nothing, but she seemed to be deep in thought.

Then I went on the carousel, with the beautiful white and gold horses, clinging to the twisted pole. I waved to Meg, but she seemed more interested in flirting with the attendant. Indeed, most of the attendants seemed to know her.

"Better get back now, Gustave, they'll be wondering where I am," she told me, taking my hand and leading me back to the theatre.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Mother and I had our lunch at a café that day. Then we strolled over to a news-stand, which also sold books. They had lurid, brightly coloured covers and the assistant explained that they were called "dime novels". We found one called Adventure Stories for Boys, which Mother bought me. "Don't tell your father" she murmured. I looked forward to trying to read it in English.

"Why is Madame Giry so rude to us today?" I asked.

"She's just... well it's just her way, I suppose. She was always very strict at the Opera House, never showed much emotion. Don't let it bother you, my dear."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

My new book was harder to read than I had thought, even with the help of a dictionary. Mother and I were still trying to improve our English, although Meg and Madame Giry were glad that they could talk to us in French. I think they missed France. Meg was eagerly demonstrating the changes she had made to her routine, but it still sounded like a noisy din to me.

With Mother's permission, I wandered outside and stood by the back door, just to get some fresh air. As I stood there, I saw Raoul running from the direction of the beach. Calling out to him, I left the doorway to go and meet him, wondering where he'd been. He was spending most of this trip in the bar and I knew how upset Mother was about it. To my horror, he looked like he hadn't slept all night. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was dishevelled and his clothes were creased and dirty.

"Where were you?" I gasped, "Mother's been so worried. Have you been drinking?" Immediately, I regretted asking that question.

He stopped in front of me, panting a little and put his hands on my shoulders. "Where's your mother?" he demanded harshly.

"On the stage, rehearsing. She's going to be so angry with you-"

"Never mind that!" he barked and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Looking around, he gripped my arm and made me follow him around the side of another building, away from the crowd. To my surprise, he knelt in front of me.

"Look at me", he ordered, in a softer tone. With unusual gentleness, he held my face in his hands and looked into my eyes. He had never done this before and it frightened me more than his anger did.

As he gazed at my face, his expression turned to one of fear and then sadness. Slowly, he rose, with what sounded like a cry of pain.

"It's true!" he gasped, clasping his hands over his face. Just like Mister Y had done... "It's true. I've known, deep down I've always known, but now…"

He reeled backwards and I could see tears welling in his eyes. I panicked. What was going on? Why were all the adults behaving so strangely?

He was crying now. I had never seen Raoul cry before. "Father, what is it? What's wrong?"

He stared at me, taking a step backwards, away from me. "Gustave, oh, Gustave.."

"What is it? Please tell me, Father!"

He turned his back to me for a long time, not saying a word.

"Father?"

Slowly he turned around.

"Gustave.. I never understood you, did I? Never even tried… All these years!"

"Father, it doesn't matter! Everything's going to be all right, I just know it. We'll be going home soon and you can pay off all your debts and we can be happy. We can do things together when we get home-"

"No, it's too late, too late.." He sounded like he was in pain again, and it scared me. "Gustave, your mother can't sing tonight," he told me suddenly.

"What? But she has to! It's all been arranged, she's the final act!"

"If she sings, _he's_ won. He can't win, he just can't..."

He was rambling, making no sense and I was unable to comfort him. "Who? Do you mean Mister Y?"

He glared at me. "Don't mention his name! Ever!"

"Father, why do you hate him? Is he dangerous?"

He put his hands on my shoulders again, roughly. "He is a monster, Gustave, inside and out. He should not have shown you his face. I don't want you going near him again, do you hear me?"

"Yes Father.. I'm sorry I went to his workshop yesterday."

"You must promise me not to go anywhere with him or speak to him. If he approaches you, walk away. Run if you have to. And then come and tell me. Promise me, boy!"

He gripped my shoulders so hard that it hurt. "I-I promise!" I cried, and he released me.

"I have to change and wash. I need to think, damn it!" he snapped, pushing me aside and running towards the hotel.

Nothing was making any sense.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

When I made a brief visit to the hotel room later, Raoul was sound asleep. I was glad - a good sleep would do him good.

The hotel agreed to us having an early dinner because of the concert. Mother hardly ate anything due to her nerves, but I enjoyed a delicious meal of roast chicken.

As we made our way to Mother's dressing room, I saw Meg and her troupe preparing to go on stage. She turned our direction and I thought I saw her shoot me a dirty look, but convinced myself I was mistaken. Then, just before I entered the dressing room, I saw a shadow out of the corner of my eye and felt a shiver down my spine. Without looking around, I knew it was Mister Y, watching us. But why? Was Mother in danger? Was I?

I helped Mother get ready that evening. When she put on the earrings that had been provided for her, I told her she looked beautiful, like a queen in a fairy tale.

"You are beautiful too," she smiled. "Oh Gustave, you haven't really had a proper vacation yet, have you? I've been so busy and distracted, and your father, well.." She paused. "We'll have a nice day together tomorrow, I promise. We'll get up early and go down to the beach. Maybe you could learn to swim? Or we could go to the park again, perhaps go on the Ferris Wheel together? I've heard the view from the top is wonderful. Whatever you want to do will be fine with me."

I hugged her. "Thank you Mother!"

Just then Raoul entered. He looked far more respectable than earlier; he was wearing a clean shirt and trousers, with his hair neatly combed. I was relieved.

"Father, doesn't Mother look lovely tonight?"

He closed the door behind him and smiled at both of us, leaning against the door in a relaxed manner. "Indeed she does," he replied happily, "Just as lovely as when I first came to her dressing room door at the Opera House."

Mother smiled at him too and it lifted my spirits even higher. This was what I wanted – the two of them being pleasant to each other instead of fighting.

"And you Raoul! You're just like that handsome young man in the Opera box, the one who used to throw me a single red rose!" He chuckled at this. I knew this story. It was so good to see them talking about their courting days, when they had first fallen in love. And they were happy, both of them.

"Gustave, would you mind waiting outside for a while please? Your mother and I have things to talk about."

It would be nice for them to talk alone for a while. I looked at my mother. "May I go exploring? By myself?"

"Yes, but stay backstage, dear. I don't want you walking on to the stage in the middle of somebody's performance!"

I smiled. "Don't worry, Mother."

"And don't leave the theatre. When I'm finished singing, meet me back here."

"I will" I called over my shoulder, and I was gone.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

_Nothing matters now, not even Mister Y_, I thought, as I strolled around backstage. _Mother and Father are being nice to each other again. They love each other, just as they did at the Opera House. Mother will be happy again. Everything is going to be fine._

I hummed a tune to myself as I watched the stage hands, scene shifters, curtain puller and all the others involved in the concert working at their various tasks. Miss Fleck and Mr Squelch got huge rounds of applause and Dr Gangle seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, introducing all the different acts. So much activity going on backstage, with performers coming and going. With all the distractions I did not notice Raoul leave the dressing room nor was I aware that Mister Y was now in that same dressing room, having used one of his many secret entrances. Just two of many things did not fall into place until much later.

Normally everyone backstage was friendly towards me but they were too busy to talk to me now and after a while I decided to go and wait for Mother, like she told me to. Dr Gangle had just announced her and she would be on the stage any moment now. But as I turned around, I felt myself bump into someone and immediately apologised. Looking up, I saw Meg smiling at me.

"Hello Gustave," she purred.

"Good evening, Miss Giry," I replied politely, turning to walk away, but her hand on my shoulder stopped me.

"Not talking to me tonight?" she asked, in that strange American-accented French.

I stammered a polite reply.

"Well, that's a pity, because I have just the treat for you, while your mother is performing."

My eyes widened.

"You know the Ferris Wheel? I know how you've been dying to go on it. Well, it just happens that Jimmy, the attendant, is a _very_ good friend of mine, and I was telling him about you earlier. He's agreed to let you ride on the Wheel tonight, for _free_, and you'll have it all to yourself! How does that sound?"

To ride on the Ferris Wheel, at _night_, after everyone else has left!

She eulogised about how lovely the view was and how it would be so exciting. I did protest a little that Mother wanted me to meet her afterwards, but she assured me that we would be back in plenty of time.

True, I thought, Mother told me not to go off with strangers. _But Meg isn't a stranger, is she? She was Mother's friend from those days at the Opera House and she's already taken me around the park. I can trust her._

"Thank you! That sounds-"

She grabbed my hand far too quickly and began leading me out the door before I had finished my reply. I saw Miss Fleck watching us but she was still wary of approaching me after Mother's rebuke.

"Yes, Gustave, you will see everything! Such a nice treat for you, is it not? Now come along, before Jimmy leaves to go home."

I have been told since then that Christine Daae sang like an angel that night, for her last performance on earth. All the audience were transfixed and not a sound could be heard as her voice soared to heights unknown. But I remember none of it.

The woman who had once been Mother's friend practically dragged me out the door and across the park to another, smaller entrance at another end of the park, which led on to the beach. My initial enthusiasm started to disappear. "Miss Giry, the Ferris Wheel is over there," I told her, pointing. "Oh, I've just remembered, there's something I wanted to show you on the beach-"

"But I need to be back in time-" I protested.

She looked at me with frightening malice.

"Don't worry; I'll be _more_ than happy to explain everything to your mother!"

My heart began to thump with fear. "Miss Giry, I want to go back! Please!"

Suddenly, she grabbed me and lifted me with ease into her arms. "No!" I cried, "Please, I want my mother!"

I struggled with every ounce of strength, but she continued to hold me tightly and half carried, half dragged me towards the rocks, as I screamed for help. She knelt on a rocky outcrop, where the water was deeper and as I looked up at her pleadingly, her eyes had a wild, deranged look about them. _Why is this happening?_

"Hush Gustave, it will be over soon. As long as you don't struggle, that is…" I kicked and thumped, with no intentions of giving in quietly. "I swim here every morning," she said, her voice taking on a frantic, desperate tone. "I try to cleanse myself every day. And I cannot. The worst thing is, it was all for _him_ and he never even cared!"

Suddenly, my body was plunged under the waves. It was just like my nightmare..

She pulled my head up and I tried to fight against her strong grip. "You don't understand, do you, little boy? He's giving you everything, everything… All that I should have had!"

My head was under again and I struggled for breath_. I'm going to die_! I thought in terror. _Why is she doing this? I don't understand.. _

Suddenly, those hands were no longer holding me down, and I burst above the surface, drinking in all the air I could. Voices were calling my name – Mother and Mister Y!

Lots of things happened at once. Meg let go of me, Mother was crying and Mister Y was shouting. I saw Miss Fleck and Madame Giry as well, but I just ran, soaking wet, to my mother's arms, sobbing with relief.

"Oh Gustave, thank goodness you're safe!"

"I'm so sorry Mother, for wandering off again!

She was soaking now as well, but all I cared about was that she was there. Mister Y was trying to calm Meg down and the two theatre hands that had accompanied them ran to alert the police.

Suddenly Meg pulled a gun out of her pocket. Mother and I screamed as she pointed it her own head. She wept as she described how Mister Y never noticed her, even after all her hard work and everything she did for him. Madame Giry was aghast as her daughter spoke of all the men who had given her money, the money that Mister Y used to buy Phantasma. I did not understand everything, but it sounded like she had done something bad to earn it. Mother and I clung to each other as she assured me that Mister Y was here, that he would sort everything out.

But Meg turned back towards us with hatred in her voice. "Yes, my _dear_ old friend, that's what I was doing while you were swanning around Paris with your tea parties and balls and your fancy shops. And as for you..." She bent down so her face was level with mine. "You spoilt little brat! Do you have any idea of what the real world is like? "Oh, I had to sell my pony!" she mimicked, and I sobbed quietly, remembering how kind she had been to me.

Mister Y stood protectively in front of Mother and me while trying to comfort the distraught Meg. I tried not to listen or look around, I just wanted to go back to the hotel.

"Give me the gun Meg," he commanded her softly, "I take full responsibility for all that happened to you. If only I'd known.. But, please, don't do this."

He stood behind her, placing his hands tentatively on her shoulder.

"You feel neglected and pushed aside, don't you? You've been used terribly, and I am so sorry for that. Please Meg, I can see that you have beauty underneath.."

Slowly Meg began to calm down, and Mother turned my head away. I held on to her tightly. She kept one arm around me as she tried to reassure me. "She's lowering the gun now darling, everything's going to be all right.."

And then Mister Y spoke the words that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

"We cannot all be like Christine, you know."

All of Meg's self-control snapped. "Christine! It's always about Christine!"

I buried my head in Mother's side as a gunshot rang out.

Meg screamed. Mother gasped, and I held on to her for dear life. But she was slipping out of my arms and I looked at her stomach and realised with a sickening dread where the bullet had gone...

I could not support her and she slumped to the ground, blood seeping everywhere.

Everything happened at once. Madame Giry and Miss Fleck ran for help, Meg screamed about how she didn't mean to do it, Mister Y uttered a gut wrenching cry... And I moaned. "Mother, mother.."

Mister Y was kneeling beside Mother now, and I looked around frantically. "Where's Father?" I wept, "He should be here!"

Mother was groaning in pain now but she looked at me with gentle eyes. "Your father, your real father, is here, Gustave.." She moved her head towards Mister Y, looking at him with such love and devotion.

No! No! This couldn't be happening! Mister Y could not be my father! He was a monster, he was hideous!

She turned to me. "And Gustave, my darling boy, please, always, look with your heart, like I've always told you. Please…" She lifted her hand and placed it on my face. I closed my eyes, weeping and trembling with shock and grief. She could not die; she was everything to me, the centre of my whole world... And Mister Y was _not_ my father!

It was all too much for me. I screamed and ran down the beach, as far away as I could.

Panting and crying, I stood looking out to sea. But I knew I had to return. I could not stay away, not when Mother was seriously injured. Still in shock, I walked back to where she lay, blood seeping from her dress. I knelt beside her, and she told me how sorry she was and how much she loved me. She must have known at that moment that the end was near, for she took my hand and placed it into Mister Y's.

"Please," Mother begged him weakly, "Please love him for me and take care of him."

No, this wasn't possible! She was giving me to him!

"I can't!" he gasped, glancing at me in fear, "What will I do?"

"Just love him. Give him all you can give. Please, Erik."

Erik? Was that Mister Y's real name?

Mister Y held her and nodded slowly, as she begged him to come closer. And they kissed. I had never seen her kiss Raoul like this, or look at him with such love. They loved each other! They must have loved each other long ago. In Paris. Why did I not know about this? And.. Mister Y was my father…

I saw her go limp in his arms as they kissed that one last time. Numbness enveloped me and I could not register or understand what was happening. Everything seemed to be happening through a window. Mister Y laid her on the sand, her body still and lifeless. Miss Fleck returned to the group with Raoul, who held his wife in his arms, tears falling down his cheeks. And everything continued to happen through that window, as I laid my head on my mothers' lap, her perfume still wafting in the air, the whole world full of deathly silence.


	10. A Curtain Descending

**Here's Chapter 10 - another sad one! Hopefully things will get a little more cheerful from now on. Please read and review!**

**"No-one told me that grief would be so much like fear" - C.S Lewis**

It has been a few days since I wrote that last section; I needed to rest from writing for a while. My hand trembled even as I wrote, and in the end I just sat at my desk in silence, the only sounds being the incessant ticking of the clock and my own ragged breathing.

I have re-lived every detail of that night in my mind, a hundred, perhaps a thousand times. And yet I have never written any of them down. Until now.

What an innocent, gullible child I was! Why was I so easily lured away by the promise of a fairground ride? How was I so easily deceived by an act of such manipulation and insincerity?

All the violent deaths that have taken place since that night! Earlier today I was reading about another dreadful murder in this city. The victim had children, and my heart ached for them, for I knew what pain they would go through. All those murders and wars and death, and yet that one solitary death still haunts me, six decades later.

Mother's words to me that night in the hotel room keep haunting me. "_You know, sometimes I have this silly wish that you would stay as an innocent little boy forever._.." And yet, ironically, it is she who has stayed the same, in my mind at least. I would indeed change; in time I would grow old, and watch my hair turn grey and creases appear on my face, but she would remain young always, with her chestnut curls and flawless beauty.

Melancholy was descending on the room, as I emerged from the past. Realising that I needed the company of the living, not the dead, I made my way downstairs to join my wife in front of the TV. Not surprisingly, she worries about me when I am working on this account.

As I expected, she looked concerned when I entered the room and asked me if I was ok.

"You've been writing a long time, Gus. Sometimes I think it's not healthy for you to be opening up old wounds."

"I'm fine, Helen, honestly," I assured her as I sat down next to her, "What are you watching?"

But I can't stop writing, not now. I need to finish what I've started. Perhaps then I will understand. Perhaps later on I will shed the tears I've been fighting for days.

Perhaps I'm not as cynical as I thought I was.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

My mind returns to that beach, sixty years ago. Things were happening around me, people were running and shouting, but I only noticed Raoul, my father, who was not my father, cradling my mother in his arms. And standing near them, this stranger, who inspired such fear and awe in me; crying with such gut wrenching pain. To see such a powerful man weeping openly was frightening to me.

I stood in front of him, and he lowered his hands which had been covering his masked face. He just looked at me, and the eyes that gazed on me were not a monster's but a man's. I felt a curious mixture of fear and pity for this man who shared so many of my dreams and passions and was now mourning the death of someone he had clearly loved.

_Look with your heart_, _Gustave_ I remembered.

Slowly I reached out to take off his mask, but he stopped me with his hand. "No," he whispered.

He knelt in front of me and bowed his head. Carefully, fearfully, he removed his mask. To my surprise, he pulled at his scalp and his hair – his wig – came off too. His bowed head had only a few tufts of black, greying hair on it. With care, so as not to frighten me again, he raised his head so that he was looking at me.

The flesh was still mangled, the mouth still malformed, that piece of skin was still missing... but those eyes were the same, and all the sadness of the world was in them. My heart ached for him, despite my numbness. We looked at each other, and I did not scream or run away, nor did I ever do so again.

The police arrived, followed by an ambulance and Mother was taken away. I could not look at her face as she was lifted inside the ambulance. _Surely this is not Mother? Surely this cannot be her, lying so still, so lifeless?_ Somebody put a blanket around me. I was cold, but did not care. Everything was strange, eerie, alien. Mister Y and Father-who-was-not-Father even talked, I could hear them but could not understand.

I remember Mister Y lifting me into his arms. I clung to him, but for safety, not out of affection. He carried me, with people looking, pointing, voices everywhere, all through a haze. It all seemed to be happening to someone else. Some other Gustave.

He carried me over to another tower on a different side of the park, opposite the one containing the Aerie. With a little effort, he carried me up another spiral staircase which opened out into a small, cold apartment. With no resistance, I allowed him to remove my wet clothes and replace them with a nightshirt, which was far too big. He dried my hair with a towel while a grandfather clock ticked away in the corner. I can vaguely remember him laying me down in a bed, his bed I learnt later, and putting the blankets around me.

Most of that night is a blur, except for Mister Y telling me that he had to go to the police station and the mortuary, that there were some official things to see to, and that Miss Fleck would stay with me. I just lay under the covers as he sighed and closed the bedroom door. I think Miss Fleck came and sat beside the bed for a while, then left again. There were voices, comings and goings.. I'm sure I slept too, but I can't remember.

All I really know is that I woke up in a strange bed, in a strange room; it could have been a week later for all I knew.. and I remembered what had happened. But I could not cry. Numbness was still paralysing me and I could not yet accept that Mother was gone. _She will come and get me_ I kept thinking. _She will walk in here, any moment now, and wonder why I'm here and not in the hotel._

At some point, Mister Y knocked at the door and tentatively opened it, his mask in place again.

He stood there, fidgeting nervously and looking at the floor. Finally he spoke.

"Gustave," he began gently, "I've made you some porridge. Come and eat it while it's hot. You need to eat something."

Although I did not feel remotely hungry, I rose slowly from the bed, and with no hurry whatsoever, followed him out into the kitchen, which was also the dining room and the sitting room. We were on our own in the apartment now. I was not sure if that was a good thing or not. In the corner, the clock ticked. Mister Y took a robe of some kind and put it on me, which warmed me a little. A fire was now lit in the hearth and he began coaxing it into life. There was a small table in the middle of the room, with a bowl of porridge and a glass of milk in front of the only chair, and a spoon lay beside them.

I sat. I did not think I would ever be hungry again, but I did manage a few spoonfuls. Then I just sat there, stirring it and thinking, and sipping my milk. The silence was eerie. I swallowed, and the sound seemed to fill the whole room.

"I'm sorry it's so cold, Gustave, but the fire is blazing away now and you will be warm soon. I-I'm not very often here during the day."

I nodded.

I sat there, stirring my porridge until it got cold and Mister Y took it away. And slowly, gradually, it dawned on me.

Mother was dead. She had been shot and now she was dead. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't happening to someone else. Mother was dead.

She would never play with me again. She would never tell me stories again, or sing to me, or have snowball fights with me in the winter. Never again would we go on picnics or travel into Paris, to a café or the market or the Bois de Bologne. She would never sing for me at the piano again; I would never hear her voice again. I was a child and could not think beyond those simple, immediate things, could not imagine the next five, ten or twenty years.

"Mother is dead," I said dully, my first words in that dark, silent apartment.

Mister Y was stoking the fire again when I spoke. He laid down the poker, turned around and walked towards the table. "Yes, Gustave, she is," he told me, with infinite gentleness, "I am so sorry."

I ran from the table back into the bedroom, slammed the door and flung myself on the bed. I stayed there, my head buried in the unfamiliar blanket. There was no lock on the door but Mister Y did not follow me. He stood outside the door and begged me to come out, but I could not.

I was trapped here. Mother had died and left me with a stranger, in a strange country. Everything was wrong.

I could hear Mister Y outside, pacing up and down, and crying with gut wrenching sobs, just like on the beach.

"Oh Christine… My Christine…"

He was grieving too and I could not go to him. Not yet.

And still my tears would not come.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I lay on that bed, which was not even my own bed, for a long time. Then Mister Y knocked again. Peering around the door, he watched me with concern. "Gustave, the vicomte wants to speak with you. He will be leaving tonight, once all the formalities are over, and wants to see you at the hotel."

I rose slowly and nodded at him. I remembered I was still wearing nightclothes at this time of day and wondered what my mother would have said. My heart ached at the thought. When I entered the main room, Mr Squelch was there, carrying my suitcases. "Here are your things, Gustave," he told me, in a surprisingly soft tone. The other two, never far behind, entered behind him.

Apart from some half-hearted bows, the trio did not seem to be in the mood to perform at this time. One by one, they came to me and sympathised in normal voices, telling me how beautiful and talented my mother was.

I opened my case. There on top was my bear and I hugged him tightly. And my clothes.. all the things that Mother had packed for me. It seemed a lifetime ago. And there was my Hans Christian Andersen book, and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, and all my belongings from that other world, far away across the ocean.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

At the hotel, I sat in what had been my bedroom while Mister Y and Father-who-was-not-Father talked in the living room area. About me, I suppose, among other things. Two former enemies, now trying to be civilised to each other, given the circumstances. When the door of the suite closed, indicating that Mister Y had left, I went into the living room and Raoul turned from the window to face me. "I hear you have your luggage now. That's good. If you want me to send anything else to you-"

"Do I have to stay here?" I interrupted.

He looked at me sadly, all attempts at stiff formality gone.

"I think it's best, Gustave. He is your real father after all. I have to accept that; I've been denying it for too long. And anyway, you never felt at home at the chateau. You know that as well as I do. You never wanted that world. This was the reason why. All those years… I knew, you see, deep down. That's why I tried to force you into going hunting, touring around the estate.. To make you into a vicomte, into someone like me. But you're not."

"I don't want to stay here! I want to go home!"

"It's for the best, Gustave. A fresh start.. " He sat down, defeated. "Oh, Gustave, I couldn't give your mother the life she deserved. Whatever she needed, I just couldn't provide it for her. Or you.. The two of you.. you had your music and all the other things. He could have given you both everything, but for some reason she married me instead. You belong here with him. I can't be a father to you, don't you see? I never could."

I argued and protested. I couldn't understand his explanation. But he was leaving. He was going home to explain everything to his relatives; I still have no idea what he told them. My stepfather and I searched the room and found the tin soldier that Mother had looked after for me. It was in a drawer, still wrapped in paper and Raoul promised me that he would give it to Louis along with the postcard of the Statue of Liberty and that he would explain what had happened.

"You should probably write to him too," he suggested. In answer to my next question, he did not think that he could send or bring Alfie over to me; he would ask Louis' family to look after him permanently.

There the two of us stood in that hotel room, not knowing what to say. I wandered into Mother and Raoul's bedroom and there was Mother's fur hat on the bed, ready to be packed up with everything else. I remembered how she had always worn it when we went out together and how happy she had looked. And now she would never wear it again.

It was the hat that finally broke me.

I sat on the bed, nuzzling it against my cheek and cried at last. Raoul hesitated in the doorway then came and sat next to me, and clumsily put his arm around my shoulder. I had never been comforted by him before and here he was, showing me affection when it was too late.

Raoul felt awkward around Mister Y and me that day, as all the formalities regarding Mother were completed. Looking back I think he also saw a different, human side to Mister Y on that beach as Mother died, but it still did not make them friends. He left that day on a late sailing and his old enemy even brought me to the docks to see him off. Strangely enough, the three of us travelled together by cab, although we hardly said a word to each other. Just before he embarked, I hoped Raoul would embrace me, or show me some kind of affection again. But to my disappointment, he just shook my hand and wished me well in my new life.

"Look after him," he told Mister Y darkly. They did manage to shake hands, although that may have been for my benefit.

I caught sight of him on deck as the sun was setting, his blonde hair, so unlike my own, blowing in the wind. He waved to us, or rather to me, and he looked so sad that I almost longed to join him. But what kind of life would I have had? True, Mister Y gave him the money he had promised Mother. He did pay off his debts although the estate still cost a fortune to run and it didn't solve all his problems. For a brief period, he even managed to give up drinking, but it was a lifelong battle for him.

Perhaps he was right; perhaps he just could not be a father. At this stage, I don't feel any desire to be too harsh on him as a father figure. He was very much a product of his time and his environment, after all.

I only saw him once more, and that was several years later.

The ship pulled away and was soon drifting out of the harbour, towards France. When I look back on that strange day, it feels like there was a watershed of some kind, like a curtain descending on the first act of a play.

"Let's go home, Gustave," Mister Y told me softly, and I followed him.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I woke from a nightmare, my heart pounding as if it would burst from my chest. "No!" I gasped, hardly able to get the sound out. Meg had shot me, there had been blood everywhere, while she laughed cruelly... I struggled to sit up, getting tangled in the bedclothes. Mother was not here.. I could not run to her or call her.

Mister Y was at my side in a moment. "It's all right, Gustave, it was just a dream," he soothed, "Just a bad dream." He sat on the edge of the bed and gently put his hands on my shoulders.

"Meg was trying to kill me!" I managed to blurt out. I was still trembling and needed someone, anyone..

"You are safe now; no-one was trying to kill you, Gustave."

I took some deep breaths as my heartbeat returned to normal. Mister Y caressed my shoulders, trying to comfort me.

"I don't think you should be alone tonight. I'll move my blankets in here and keep an eye on you. In fact, I think I'll sit with you for a while."

"I wish Mother was here.." The trouble was, now that my tears were unblocked, I couldn't stop them.

"I know, child. I wish she was here too.." There were tears glistening on the mask and I realised that he was grieving just as much as I was. Hesitantly, as if he were afraid, he put his arms around me but I did not return his embrace. He was not Mother and I could not pretend he was.

I sat back against the pillows and clutched my bear, trying unsuccessfully to control my own tears. "I'm sorry, Mister Y", I sobbed.

"Oh Gustave, there's no need for you to be sorry, it's perfectly fine for you to cry. You've been through so much in such a short space of time, I know that." He took out a handkerchief and gently wiped away my tears.

"She used to comfort me when I had nightmares." _Used to. _My voice was barely a whisper and there was a lump in my throat the size of a tennis ball.

"I know. Remember, that was how we first met – you'd had a nightmare and you ran to her?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Tell me about her. What else do you miss about her?"

"She used to sing me to sleep. She had a beautiful voice, and she would sing while I played the piano as well. And she told me stories, about Little Lotte and-"

"And the Angel of Music, and the goblins and trolls of the North."

"You know about them?"

"Of course. Her father used to tell her those stories, as you probably know, and she told me all about them during our lessons. And what else did she do?"

So I told him, long into the night, all about Mother, about the things we did together and what she told me of her life. He listened with interest and fascination.

"She told me about life at the Opera House, but she never mentioned you," I told him, puzzled.

"That story is for another day, my boy."

"I miss her. I miss her so much."

I suddenly burst into tears again. "Why is she dead? Why did Meg kill her? She never did anyone any harm!" My grief was raw and frightening and I reached out for the only parent I had.

"Oh child… Oh you poor, poor thing.."

We cried together in each other's arms for a long time and finally, when our grief had abated a little, Mister Y laid me down under the covers. He made a bed for himself on the floor and returned to tuck me in, something he was not used to doing. "And here is your friend!" he smiled, placing my bear in my arms. He looked at me with such sad eyes, and yet such devotion too.

"Gustave, I can't even try to replace your mother. She was wonderful, unique. But I promised her I would look after you, and I will always do that, no matter what happens. I swear it to you."

I didn't answer, my eyes still brimming with tears. He gave me his handkerchief once more and I dried my eyes. I looked down at the bedclothes, but his gentle voice made me raise my head.

"P-Perhaps I could tell you stories from now on? And sing to you? Would that be all right, do you think?" His shy smile eased my own nerves and even a little of my sadness.

Slowly, I nodded. "Yes. I would like that, Mister Y."

He sang me a soothing lullaby and I slept peacefully, without nightmares.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

There were other nightmares in the weeks that followed, and other nights when I cried for my mother. Try as he might, Mister Y could not answer my eternal "Whys?"

"Why did Meg kill Mother? They were friends, when they were growing up. Why did she hate her? Why did she try to drown me?"

In vain did Mister Y explain about how jealous Meg was of her former friend, jealous of her wealth, her voice, her starring role in the concert. She was also jealous of me, he explained, because she and her mother had found out that I would inherit Phantasma and all of his fortune, and she hated me enough to try and kill me, even though I knew nothing about this at the time. He even tried to explain how he had ignored her for ten years, ignored her sacrifice and suffering, how she was driven insane by neglect and despair..

In the end, Mother was still dead. And Meg, declared insane before her trial, spent the rest of her life in a mental institution somewhere in New York State, and her mother, who was not completely sane after all these events either, moved to the adjacent town to be near her. Some say she worked as a dressmaker, others say she was a sort of companion to an elderly blind lady; I have no idea. I never saw either of them again, although there were rumours that in later years Madame Giry was seen wandering around Coney Island talking to herself.

Over the years, people have asked me: "Have you forgiven Meg Giry?" And that is a difficult question. Forgiveness.. yes, we are supposed to forgive aren't we? "Life is too short to bear a grudge" people say, although they're usually talking about something much more trivial than murder or manslaughter.

Is life too short to bear a grudge? No, it is far too _long_. All that hatred and bitterness, eating you up inside – for decades? No, I do not want that. And for that reason, yes, I do forgive Meg Giry, although it took me a long, long time to be able to say that. All these years later I just have pity for her, nothing more, nothing less. Is that true forgiveness? It is the best that I can do – forgive, but not forget. How can I forget it ever happened when Mother has missed out on so much? My graduation, my wedding, the birth of her grandchildren… she is the missing face in every photograph, the empty chair at the Christmas dinner table. And _no_ amount of hatred and bitterness could, or will ever, bring her back.

All this sadness is weighing down on me yet again. C.S Lewis wrote "No-one told me that grief would be so much like fear". How true. He was writing about losing his wife but interestingly he also lost his mother at the age of ten; no doubt he experienced that fearful grief then too.

Time to lay aside the past for a while, before I become trapped in it.


	11. Rebirth and Renewal

**Here's Chapter 11! This is a new phase of the story so the pace will change a bit. This particular chapter feels a bit disjointed - it's just to give you an idea of Erik and Gustave's early days/weeks together. All comments and suggestions are welcome!**

I can't pretend that everything was fine after that night, but Mister Y and I were a little less awkward around each other, which was a positive step. He still filled me with awe and perhaps a little fear, with his imposing, commanding presence but I no longer thought of him as a monster.

The morning of our first proper day together he was reluctant to take me outside, because of all the reporters flocking around. But later that day when things were a bit quieter he took me on a tour of Phantasma. "It's the end of the season," he explained, "so the rides will be closing up today, but you will still be able to go on some of them. I will arrange it for you." He seemed so eager to cheer me up and make me happy, despite his own grief.

Everyone in the park knew what had happened by now, of course. Workers were closing up food stalls, rides and other attractions, and they were all looking at us as we passed. Some persistent reporters would return over the next few days to try, unsuccessfully, to secure an interview with Mister Y, but soon they would turn their attention to other events.

He took me over to the Ghost Train and introduced me to Adam, the attendant in charge, who looked surprised to see his mysterious boss out in public. "My son is to have a free ride on this train, as many as he wants," he told Adam, with a meaningful look, and the young man agreed straight away.

It was scary and exciting, I have to admit. But it somehow felt wrong that I should be going on it by myself. Mother and I were supposed to be trying it out together. As the train emerged from the dark tunnel and jerked to a halt, I could feel tears trickling down my face. "You all right, sonny?" Adam asked me, as he pulled up the safety bar. I nodded, but nonetheless he guided me out my seat and led me over to Mister Y, who was standing nearby. "What did you say to him?" Mister Y demanded of the poor fellow.

"Nothing, sir, honestly! He just got a bit upset at the end of the ride.."

My new found father just put a hand on my shoulder and hurried me away.

"You were thinking about your mother, weren't you?" he sighed.

I nodded. "I'm sorry. It's just.. I wanted the two of us to go on it together and now..."

"It's all right, Gustave. Maybe we should just go home."

A thought occurred to me.

"Will you take me on it? And some of the other rides too?"

He stared at me. "You want _me _to accompany you?"

I looked at the ground. _I shouldn't have asked him. It was a stupid idea._

"I can't believe that you... yes, Gustave of course I will!"

He looked so happy, and I felt so relieved.

I was beginning to realise that Mister Y was a very reclusive and secretive man, who did not visit his "ground troops" very often. The park manager, Joe Harris, who later became a good friend of mine, was in charge of all the day to day running of the place. There were supervisors and other staff who met with Mister Y occasionally for business meetings, but apart from that he kept his distance and rarely appeared in the park itself. So not surprisingly most of the employees gathered to watch us board the Ghost Train.

"Look, there he is! I can't believe that's Mister Y!"

"All this time I've worked here and I've never seen him!"

"And that's his son!"

I felt like a celebrity as the train trundled into the darkness.

After the roller coaster and perhaps one or two other attractions, Mister Y felt it was best to let everyone close up for the season. So we returned home together. As we walked, he held his hand out to me but I still did not feel comfortable taking it. If he felt rejected he did his best to hide it. Back in the little apartment, he busied himself with making some soup for our lunch.

"We'll need to go shopping for food, Gustave", he told me as he chopped vegetables, "I don't eat very much but I need to buy food for you. And some clothes too; you've only got a few outfits in your suitcase and anyway, you will need more clothes as time goes by."

Having to buy things like clothes just reminded me that I was no longer on vacation. I did not answer him, but sat quietly at the table. He rummaged around, trying to find some bread to accompany the soup, but to no avail. Sighing, he turned around wearily to look at me with those sad eyes.

"This is hard for me too, Gustave. I've never looked after a child before. I never even thought I would ever have a child, and yet here you are. It's all so new to me, I don't know what things children like, what they need… I've seen so many of them of course, on vacation here in Phantasma with their parents but this is so different…"

I was not sure what to say. Everything was new to both of us and I had no idea how to console an adult in this situation. The room was silent again, with just the two of us and it felt a bit unnerving. I just sat there, lost in my thoughts as Mister Y worked away on our lunch, probably lost in _his_ own thoughts. So many things to think about! Here I was, in this strange apartment on an amusement park, with a man I hardly knew, but who was actually my father... And Raoul was not my father. All my life I'd been calling the wrong man father and Mother had known this.

The implications of this revelation were dawning on me slowly, as I drank my soup.

Raoul was not my father. I was not the future vicomte de Chagny, and never had been. The estate and the title were not mine.

Grandmother was not my grandmother. She was just a bitter, hateful old woman and I began to feel rather sorry for her.

My Aunt Sylvie and Uncle Francois, and their horrible son Richard, they were not my relatives, nor were Aunt Gabrielle and Uncle Robert in England, nor were their three spoilt daughters. None of them belonged to me, and with the exception of Grandmother, none of them ever tried to contact me in America. And even that piece of correspondence was a brief, formal note, telling me that her son had explained everything to her, that she understood I would not be returning and that she wished me well. It was signed Veronique de Chagny. That was all.

Raoul was right; I'd never wanted to be an aristocrat and here was the reason why. I was not his. Mother had loved me, but she had hidden the truth from me all my life; every time she had referred to Raoul as "your father" she had lied. It would be a long time before I could make any sense of this. In the meantime, I suddenly realised that I had no reason to return to my former home.

That does not mean that I did not miss it. Already, even as I sat at Mister Y's table, I missed my room, with all my toys and books, and my sheet music. I missed the piano, the table in the kitchen where I could sample the cook's latest pastries and biscuits, the low window sill in the drawing room where you could sit and look out when it was raining. And the vast grounds, where all my adventures took place.. I missed the orchard, the walled garden, the tree with the low hanging branch that you could swing from. And I missed Louis and Alfie, of course.

I finished my lunch but remained sitting at the table, thinking quietly. Finally I spoke. "Mister Y, could I.. could I write a letter please?" I asked, trembling a little.

"Of course, Gustave, you can do anything you wish. I have paper and ink, and a reliable fountain pen; if you need anything else you only have to ask."

"Thank you", I replied softly, "It's just.. I want to write a letter to Louis, to tell him that I'm staying here."

"Who's Louis?"

"My friend. He's the gardener's son and we always play together. Well, w-we used to anyway. Alfie too. We had great fun together, especially in the summer.."

My voice trailed off and Mister Y looked at me sympathetically. "Of course you must write; you can do it any time you want. I have some stamps too, and there are envelopes somewhere…"

I continued sadly. "We used to throw sticks for Alfie and he would run after them. And he always got a nice bone from the cook."

Mister Y stared at me for a moment. Then, it hit him. "Oh, Alfie is a _dog_! For a moment I thought he was another boy!"

He chuckled, and I felt embarrassed for not explaining this. He looked so human when he laughed, and it was such a normal mistake to make, that soon we were both laughing.

I did write to Louis, trying to explain that I had a new father now and that I would be living with him from now on. It still felt very strange and disconcerting though and I struggled to find the right words. Mister Y and I walked to the letter box together as the sun was setting. It was on the promenade, which was mostly deserted now, apart from a few visitors getting into cabs or day trippers hurrying to the station. The season was over. On the way back, he reached out his hand to me again, and, after hesitating a little, I took it. He looked down at our joined hands but although he said nothing, I thought I saw a smile on the visible side of his face.

Louis wrote back, on a sheet torn from his exercise book, saying that he missed me and that Alfie was happy in his new home but kept wandering over to the front door of the chateau to sniff around and to look for me. He thanked me for the toy soldier too, which the vicomte had given him, and said that it worked really well. I can just imagine the day that Raoul came home; poor Louis seeing the brougham coming up the drive and running over to it, eager to greet me and ask me all about Coney Island – and just one person getting out.

We exchanged a couple of letters, sharing news about our lives, but inevitably lost touch after a while, much to my regret. I have always remembered my old playmate fondly; the gardeners son who played with the son of the chateau.

Raoul sent over the toys I had listed for him; mainly smaller items, like my marbles and my beloved tin soldiers. "I'll buy you some more toys, Gustave, whatever you want," Mister Y promised me, and he was as good as his word. However I still missed the toys I'd left behind; my kite, my hoop, my spinning top, the old rocking horse that I couldn't bear to part with... and my stuffed animals. My bear was my favourite, and became a treasured possession, but in the chateau I'd had a giraffe, an elephant, a monkey, perhaps other things too.. I thought of my old brass bed, and the space underneath where you could hide things, and the ships painted on the walls.

Sometimes I used to think that my old room waited for me, just as it was on the day I left it. Like a shrine.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

But I don't wish to give the impression that life with Mister Y was always sad or depressing. He was busy during those first few weeks, as Phantasma closed for the winter, but assured me that we would spend plenty of time together. "We have plenty of time to get to know each other," he told me kindly. Sometimes I had to attend meetings with him, which was fairly dull, but I usually brought a book with me. Other times Miss Fleck or her two associates looked after me. They were not so strange when you got to know them. But Mister Y always tried to bring me with him as he inspected his empire. He did not enjoy going out during the day but sometimes it was necessary, especially when we had to buy food.

We had so much in common. Our love of music, our love for Mother, our fascination with mechanical things and architecture, as well as the darker side of life. He never tired of hearing about Mother, but I felt too shy to ask him about his memories of her, in case it made him sad. There was so much I wanted to ask him but couldn't quite find the words.

Along with my toys, Raoul sent me a framed photograph of Mother, taken earlier that year by a local photographer. At least I had something to remember her by. This picture has always been one of my most prized possessions as it captures a particular moment in time. And despite the stiff looking pose and monochrome image I can still see the gentle, chestnut haired mother I once knew. It now sits – where else? - on top of the piano.

Mister Y took me to the Aerie during those first uncertain weeks and taught me how he repaired the automatons that he used in his shows, including the monkey playing the piano. He showed me all the tiny parts inside and how they worked together to create noise and movement. We even took apart the toy he had given me when we first arrived, and put it back together. He explained that the second, mysterious tune was called "Masquerade" and that he used to have a monkey toy which also played this tune, but on the cymbals.

Our explorations gave us something to discuss after we went back to the apartment. I watched and learned as he worked on plans for more automatons, and newer, more exciting rides and sideshows for the next season. The master and his apprentice.

He kept an eye on what the other amusement parks were up to but never slavishly copied them. He _improved_ on whatever his rivals were doing. He was constantly looking for new ways to do things, for innovation, for perfection. If a new snack was becoming popular, it had to be on offer at Phantasma, only better than before. In fact the other parks often copied _him_. New inventions and technology were all a means of enticing more people into his little bit of heaven by the sea.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Not surprisingly, Meg's dance troupe broke up not long afterwards. Most of the girls left Coney Island altogether, and those that remained were embarrassed and awkward around me. They expressed sympathy about Mother, telling me how talented and kind she was. They told me how Mother's dressing room had never been used until a few weeks ago when she arrived for her performance.

And nobody ever used it again.

Nobody ever sang her song again either. Mister Y took his own copy of the libretto and the copy he sent Mother (Raoul must have given it back to him) and burnt them both, in front of me.

"It was for her, only for her," he murmured sadly, as we watched the pages burn.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

One Sunday – I'm not sure how long I was living with him at this stage – I was woken gently by Mister Y. We still shared the bedroom and he was working on making an extra bed for one of us. He always insisted that he didn't sleep much but I felt guilty that he was still sleeping on the floor and sometimes the sofa.

"Gustave, it's Sunday, you need to get up and get ready for church."

I looked up sleepily. Church? I hadn't even thought about that. But I'd always gone to church back in France, with Mother and Raoul, even after our disaster. It would be so good to do something familiar.

Soon Mister Y and I were strolling to the local Catholic church, St Michael's, which was a 15 minute walk away. We could hear the bells ringing as we approached. It was large and beautiful, despite being grey in colour, and it was located on a quiet street, set back a little from the pavement.

"I'll come back for you when the Mass is over but wait for me outside if it finishes early", he told me causally when we reached the gate.

"You're not coming in with me?"

"No, I never attend any religious service. But your mother would want you to go, and I will make sure you do, every Sunday. This kind of thing"-he indicated the church- "was very important to her. Now, in you go and I'll meet you back in this exact spot."

The service was just starting as I sat down, near the back. Glancing around, I could see that the other children were attending with their parents. I was fairly shocked that Mister Y didn't go to church. Surely everyone went? At home, or rather, my old home, everyone in the village and the surrounding area went to St Martin's church on Sunday. Everyone in Paris went to church too, as far as I knew. Notre Dame Cathedral was always busy when Mother and I went in there. Some Parisians belonged to other religions, but everyone went to a religious ceremony of some kind, didn't they?

Nonetheless, I enjoyed it. It was comforting to hear the familiar words of the Latin Mass again. I liked listening to the choir too. Raoul would never let me join the choir in St Martins. Maybe I could join it here?

Mister Y met me outside, as he had promised and we walked home together but he never asked me anything about the ceremony. Wasn't he interested? He had wanted me to attend but had no interest in it himself. There were so many questions to ask him if only I could pluck up the courage. So many things I didn't know about him! Gradually, piece by piece, I would learn things about him, but in some ways he remained a mystery to the very end.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Of course, Mister Y and I played music together. It brought us together like nothing else could.

There was no piano in the apartment but we spent most of our time in the Aerie anyway, so Mister Y would play the piano and I would sing, or the other way around sometimes. He was deeply impressed with my ability and wanted to teach me ever more complex pieces. All the tunes I had in my head finally came to life under his tutelage. He played for me. He played a piece called "The Music of the Night" which sounded familiar. I vaguely remembered Mother humming it once, when I was younger, but Raoul did not approve. I heard him sneer "That's one of _his_ songs isn't it?" to Mother while I played nearby. Now I knew why. So many things were beginning to make sense.

He was more than happy to read my favourite stories and fairy tales to me, and often it turned out that we liked the same stories, including the Snow Queen. It was as if I had finally found the other half of myself. I was indeed his son, but I have always maintained that I am a product of _both_ my parents. Indeed, Mister Y used to tell me that I had Mother's kindness and gentle temperament, as well as her smile. That made me happy, as Mother was one of the kindest people I knew.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

One day, a few weeks after I came to live with him, we were sitting at home having just finished our dinner. "How can you be hungry again?" was his constant refrain, as he tried to get to know my appetite. He did not eat much; there was always so much for him to do that he hardly found the time and apparently he had never liked eating anyway. But I had eaten a nice big dinner, and would not be bothering him for food for some time. All was quiet, as usual. We were still at that awkward stage, to some extent, but the silence was quite comforting, with the fire crackling away in the background. Mister Y was unmasked, which was more comfortable for him when he was eating. The white mask was sitting on the table between us, and it fascinated me.

"Can I look at it?" I asked tentatively, nodding at it. He looked at me curiously. "If you like.." he replied with a degree of uncertainty.

I lifted it up. It was made from white porcelain, carefully crafted to reflect each contour of Mister Y's face. I traced my finger over its surface.

"Is it comfortable?" I asked him.

"Not particularly," he replied gloomily, "It gets hot under there and it often chafes my skin".

I looked at him and could see those places where it rubbed against his skin. "As if I'm not hideous enough…" he commented darkly. Suddenly, inexplicably, I felt the urge to see what the mask felt like. I slowly placed it against my face.

It was snatched from my hand in an instant.

"Don't ever put it on again!" he shouted, his face red with fury and I sprang up from my chair in shock.

"You do not need a mask and you never will! _Never_ cover up your face, do you hear me?"

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

He was filled with a terrible rage and his breathing was ragged. He stood slowly and clutched the edge of the table, trying to calm himself. Then, with a deep sigh, he replaced the mask on to his face.

"I'll never do that again, I promise", I told him fearfully. And I really meant it. Never had I seen him this angry. He fumed in silence for a while, before finally apologising.

"Forgive me; I have a truly dreadful temper."

Soon all was well again, but for a few minutes I had seen a different side to him.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

It was true Mister Y had a temper, but he also had a huge capacity for love. I knew that he loved Mother but he told me that ever since he found out that I was his son, he felt a huge, overwhelming surge of love for me. "My own son, my child.." he would murmur as we sat together by the fire in the evenings. He was always affectionate, stroking or ruffling my hair whenever he passed me, kissing my cheek at bedtime, hugging me.. Indeed he was far more affectionate than most middle class fathers in the world of 1907. It would embarrass me as I got older but in those early days, I was so desperate for a parent, for a father, that I welcomed this love, and gradually learnt to return it.

Sometimes I caught him just gazing at me adoringly, hardly able to believe I existed. He called me "son" or "my son" with great pride and when my toys arrived from France, he allowed me to show them to him, listening to what must have seemed like inane prattle. No question was ever too difficult or too trivial. He had a huge collection of books on every subject, art, architecture, history and of course music, in both English and French, and we pored over them together.

This led him to ask about my education so far. "No doubt it was the best in the land, with a vicomte for a stepfather!" he commented drily. And so I told him about my tutor, Professor Chapelle, and all the things he had taught me, including some English.

"Yes, I've heard you talking to Joe and I've noticed your English isn't bad. He taught you well."

"I still make mistakes though. And the professor had to…leave a few months ago so I didn't have lessons over the summer." I didn't elaborate on the reasons for this departure; no doubt he could guess.

He tested me in other subjects like mathematics and was impressed with my knowledge. "This professor sounds very learned. You were very lucky, Gustave."

"Yes, I liked him. I missed him when he left."

"You know, you will have to go to school soon."

Ignoring my downcast face, he continued. "It's the law, I'm afraid. But I have no doubt you will be fine. You are a very bright boy and will probably be ahead of your classmates. There are lots of good schools here in New York. The local elementary school is supposed to be very good; Joe's children went there, and most of my employees have children who are enrolled there."

"But everything will be in English!"

"Well, it is America! But don't worry, I'll teach you. We can work on it together. And maybe we should try and use English with each other from now on? Even just for a few days a week?"

Reluctantly I agreed. I showed him the dictionary and grammar book that I had and he immediately set me some complicated grammar exercises to work on. It would be fun too, he assured me, we would read my book of adventure stories together and he would explain the English words that I did not understand.

"I will have to enrol you soon; the term has already started. I could hardly send you to school straight away, but I think it's time now."

This was the first time I would have to be parted from Mister Y, even if it was only for part of the day. But it would be an adventure. Much and all as I respected the Professor, I had sometimes wondered what it would be like to go to school with other children. Louis used to tell me about it sometimes but that was not the same as experiencing it. This would be another new start for me. I was no longer a little aristocrat; I was Mister Y's son. I lived in America, I was trying to perfect my English and now I would attend an American school.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

When I woke from yet another nightmare, in which Meg was trying to pull me beneath the waves this time, he did not become irritated. Instead he told me to get dressed and when I was ready he led me through another door from the kitchen, up some steps and through another door, which, to my surprise, led on to a balcony of some kind. It overlooked the park and I could see other parts of Brooklyn, and indeed of New York, off in the distance.

"I built this a few years ago. I often come up here when I can't sleep. It's so peaceful here, with no-one around, and I can see for miles. My own private kingdom." He looked at me. "_Our_ kingdom".

We sat together on a bench that was built into the side of the tower.

"You can join me here any night you want, whenever you have a nightmare or you can't sleep. Unless it's the middle of winter of course."

"Thank you, Mister Y. It's so beautiful up here."

We just sat quietly for a little while and then Mister Y spoke again.

"I have nightmares too, you know."

"You do?" I was surprised, but then again I was a heavy sleeper.

"Indeed I do. Sometimes I fear them. And sometimes they have been a source of great inspiration to me. My music, my automatons, the Ghost Train, the Haunted House.. All kinds of things."

Mister Y was unlike anyone I'd ever met before. He was strange and still a bit mysterious, but he was all I had. And I was all he had. Not until I became a father myself did I understand this overwhelming love that he had for me.

I even leaned against him as we sat there, until it got too cold and we had to go inside. After I got back into my bed, he came to sit with me for a while. As he gently tucked me in, he picked up my bear and began making him "dance" on the blanket. Mother liked to tease me with my bear too, when we played together. Sometimes she pretended he was an opera singer, with a silly voice, and even manipulated his jerky limbs to make him look like he was bowing and waving...

I laughed at the silly song that he sang as he moved my toy along the bed before giving him back to me with a soft chuckle. "Mother liked to play like this too," I smiled, and for once sadness did not grip my heart when I spoke of her. When Mister Y bent down and tenderly kissed my forehead, I suddenly felt a rush of.. well, perhaps not love, not just yet, but it was some kind of affection. A feeling of happiness and security that I did not think I would ever feel again.

He sang to me and told me another instalment of an exciting story that he had made up just for me. Even though I felt more contented, my heart still ached for Mother and he seemed to realise this. Somehow he knew that it was sometimes possible to be happy and sad at the same time. Putting his arms around me, he held me close.

"I think we'll get along together just fine," he grinned, as I returned his embrace.

After a little while he tried to gently remove my arms from around his chest.

"Don't leave me, Mister Y," I begged him.

"I won't." he whispered, and he climbed into the bed beside me, singing me another soothing lullaby.

We were still in each other's arms the next morning.


	12. The Love That You Deserve

This morning I was thinking some more about those nights where the two of us sat outside together and talked about the stars, all the landmarks we could see and so many other things. First there were the nights on the balcony at the top of that tower, then the balcony in our new house. Sometimes I came out there when I'd had a nightmare, sometimes I just wanted to be with Papa.

My reverie was interrupted by a sound from the present: a key in the front door. I jumped, and then recovered quickly when I heard my daughter's voice.

"Only me, Dad,"

"I'm in here, Christine,"

She put her head around the sitting room door, where I was trying to tidy up quickly.

"So good to see you, sweetheart," I told her as I greeted her with a kiss. And indeed it is. My wonderful daughter… So like her mother in looks but I can see much of her namesake in her too, especially in her lovely singing voice.

As Helen was off visiting a friend we had the house to ourselves and it was nice to sit and chat over coffee. I rarely get time alone with her like this anymore. She is so busy now, with her own family and all her activities. We talked about the children, her husband's new job, local news…

"I see Greenberg's is going out of business at the end of the month," Christine told me sadly, "There was an ad for a closing down sale in the paper yesterday. It's so sad. Too much competition I guess. It used to be the best toy store in New York."

"That _is_ sad.." I remarked wistfully, "Such a great store.. Your mother and I used to get your Santa Claus presents in there, yours and Charles'. I guess people are shopping out of town more and more."

I teased her about how we could never pass by the window of that store without her wanting to look at something – a doll, a doll's house... They always had a nice window display, especially in the weeks leading up to Christmas and both Christine and her brother liked the elevator with the lattice door that you pulled across. And for me it held even more memories.

"Your Grandpa Erik took me in there the first time we went to Manhattan together on the train-"

"And he bought you a toy yacht, a mouth organ and a kite, and then you sat in the park and ate doughnuts. Yes, I know, I know!"

"Sorry, sweetheart. I'm getting very predictable and annoying in my old age, aren't I?"

"Just a little," she replied drily, "But I'll still listen to you, even when you're drooling and falling asleep mid-sentence."

"You'll be old one day too, you know. It'll happen to you!"

We both chuckled at this. It's the only way to cope with these things, strange as it may seem.

After a while she asked me the question I was expecting.

"Have you been writing about Grandma again?"

"Yes, and Grandpa Erik too. It's brought back a lot of memories… I know I've said this many times, but I wish you'd known her. Just think; she'd be 90 if she was still alive!"

She put down her cup and paused before responding. "You know, Mom says you've been spending a lot of time on it recently. Is everything ok, Dad? It's not upsetting you, is it?"

I squeezed her hand. I appreciate that she is concerned but…

"Everything's fine, sweetheart. Your mom worries too much. I just need to clarify everything, get it all down on paper in some kind of order before I.. well, start forgetting what day it is or leaving my slippers in the oven."

"I'd like to read it when you're finished. If that's ok?"

"Yes, in fact I was going to ask you to read it and tell me what you think."

She agreed to this readily, and I know she will give me an honest opinion. Where would I be without her?

With that business out of the way, we talked about other, more recent things until it was time to for her to leave, as she had errands to run and then the children would be getting in from school.

"Have you got everything, dear?" I asked her as she was about to get into the car.

"_Gustave, have you got everything? You don't want to be late on your first day..."_

"_Coming, Mister Y..."_

I was jolted back into the present as the car door slammed.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I thought about that day – our first visit to the Manhattan shopping district on the new electric train. It would be the first of many. Mister Y did not like being away from the familiar territory of Coney Island, where he was respected and where people were used to seeing odd looking people from Phantasma out and about shopping in the local stores. But he did not have much of a choice now – he had a child, a child who needed clothes and toys among other things and sometimes he had to venture further afield, whether it was running errands in Brooklyn or shopping in the heart of Manhattan. He clutched my hand as we made our way through the busy streets and all I could see were shoppers staring at us, or at least at this strange man with a hat pulled down over one side of his face in an attempt to hide the mask.

"Mama, why is that man wearing a mask?" a little girl asked her mother.

"I don't know dear, now come along," she replied sharply, staring at Mister Y as if he was about to harm them both. It was strange to see the great Mister Y looking so awkward and uncomfortable when he was usually so confident and full of authority.

Or another time, some man in the crowd shouted out "Hey buddy, get back to the freak show!" I remember how Mister Y glanced at me, squeezed my hand and took deep breaths as he did his utmost not to explode there and then. This type of thing did not happen every time we went shopping, but sometimes all it takes is one rude or abusive person to ruin your day. I realised that people would probably stare at us both when we were together. Or pretend not to stare, that was almost as bad. It soon dawned on me that I could no longer be anonymous when I walked down a street. But we could face those inconsiderate people together, he and I, and soon I learned to stare right back at them. Or politely tell them how rude they were being. That soon put a stop to it.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

My grief was strange and unpredictable. Every time I thought my tears were finished, something would happen and I would cry again. Raoul wrote to me and told me about the funeral – just a small private affair with him and a few of Mother's old friends in attendance. She was buried in her father's burial plot and he assured me he would visit it as often as he could. But I could not imagine her lying in the cold ground. She was always too full of life for that.

I tried not to sit around doing nothing. If I did that, all too soon I would find myself thinking about Mother, which only made me sad, so I tried to keep busy by helping Mister Y as much as possible. It did not help that there were reminders of her everywhere – the theatre, the hotel and of course the beach. I tried to avoid the latter as much as possible and in fact I've never really liked going to the beach in general. I've never even learnt to swim, which is something I regret. Imagine – growing up in Coney Island and disliking the beach! No-one ever believes me when I tell them that.

Even walking down a street was hard. At first every young chestnut haired woman I saw seemed to look like Mother. Or someone would be wearing a similar coat or hat and I feel a painful stab of memory. It lessened after a while of course, but that was no comfort at the time. I would see boys my own age, walking down the street with_ their_ mothers, going into stores and cafes. _It's so unfair!_ I would think bitterly in my weaker moments. _Why do they have a mother and I don't? _But I knew the reason: Meg Giry. It was because of her that I had no mother and had bad dreams and felt sad at seeing women in fur hats.

Thankfully I was sheltered from all the newspaper coverage of her death although I have discovered some of those articles since then. So many fanciful accounts! You would almost think that choirs of angels came down to that beach and carried her up to Heaven. Much to my amusement, New York has sometimes tried to claim her as their own, despite the fact that she only spent a few days here. "She became an angel on American soil" as one sentimental article put it.

I suppose it has all the hallmarks of a great story – the beautiful singer returning to the spotlight, gunned down in the prime of her life by a jealous former best friend … It is one of those stories that creates more, not less, interest among certain people as years go by and facts are replaced by legend. All that I can hope for is that no-one makes a movie about it… And given that Raoul hated his wife being addressed by her maiden name, it is quite ironic that here in America at least, she is remembered almost entirely by that name.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

At first, school was just as confusing as I'd imagined. It was so disconcerting being in a classroom full of children when I was so used to individual attention, first from the Professor, then from Mister Y. And having to use English all the time was hard. Making polite conversation was one thing, but now I had to learn everything through it. I had been taught cultured, formal English, the kind that my old tutor once learnt from his English mother, not this American slang that all my classmates spoke. And of course, I was faced with a whole new syllabus in subjects like history and geography.

My teacher Miss Philips was sympathetic though, and used to dealing with immigrant children. She gave me extra work to do to help me catch up and Mister Y helped me, scoffing a little at the apparent simplicity of it. He hated losing me to the education system for several hours a day, and made no secret of it, but the alternative was getting letters and perhaps visits from what he called "nosy officials from the school board", and that he definitely did not want.

I hated sounding different to everyone. There were a lot of German Jewish children in the school but nobody from France. Some of my classmates made fun of my accent at first and mocked how I pronounced certain words, especially how I rolled my r's. They called me "froggy" and always asked me if I had snails for lunch. I hated them.

When I told Mister Y, he was furious and went with me early to the school the very next day, before the other pupils arrived. I sat out in the corridor while he "had a few words" with Miss Philips. He never really told me what he said to her, but it did the trick. The boys responsible were spoken to and left me alone after that.

In fact it soon became common knowledge that I was Mister Y's son and that I lived in Phantasma. That was enough to deter bullies. Everyone wanted to know what it was like to live in an amusement park. However even with this novelty I still found it hard to make friends at first. To attempt to blend in more, I listened to how the other children spoke, the slang and expressions they used, their pronunciation, and I tried to copy them. When I came home one day and described something as "swell" Mister Y teased me about how I was turning into "a little American."

"Are you French, Mister Y?" I asked him that evening on the balcony.

"I don't claim membership of any country, including this one. But yes, I was born in France."

"And you lived in Paris?"

"For most of the time, yes. But that was all a long time ago."

"I know. But I'm just wondering about..well, lots of things really. You taught Mother, didn't you? She told me that the night before she died. You taught her to sing."

"Yes, I did," he sighed. "She was just a child when she came to live at the Opera House. The same age as you in fact. Such a scared, innocent child… She had only just lost her father you see. As you know, they were very close. She used to come down to the chapel at night to pray for him and she would talk to him there, asking him if he would send her the Angel of Music, just like he had promised. I know this... because I used to listen to her."

"Did you live at the Opera House too?"

"In a way... And she would beg him to send the Angel because she was so alone and afraid. It broke my heart. She really believed in her Angel you see, because of the stories of Little Lotte which her father had told her. And after a while, when she realised he was not coming she broke down in tears."

He sighed again and laid his head against the wall, closing his eyes.

"She needed her Angel so very badly.. and she was so young and lost... I spoke to her, trying to comfort her. But.. I spoke from my hiding place, throwing my voice. I am a ventriloquist as well, you see. And she cheered up immediately and asked me if I was the Angel of Music. And.. I said yes.."

"But you're not an angel! You're a real person!"

"I know. But I wanted to her to trust me. You see, she and Meg used to sneak down to the stage at night and sing, and hers was the sweetest voice I had ever heard. She used to sing for her father in the chapel when she was alone too. All those nights I listened to her angelic voice... It needed training of course, and I wanted to teach her so badly. I couldn't have gone to her as I am, she would have been terrified. So I let her think I was the Angel of Music and after that I gave her singing lessons-"

"You lied to her! The Angel of Music is just a story!"

He buried his head in his hands.

"I wanted to go to her, to speak to her face to face. Don't you see? But I thought she would ask me about the mask and would want to see my face.. She was alone and I comforted her. She trusted me and I nurtured her voice in secret. She never even told Meg about our lessons."

Mister Y continued to sit there, his face in his hands, and I eventually left him there and went back to bed, feeling a little confused.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

We did not celebrate Thanksgiving that first year. I didn't even know about this great American tradition until my classmates started talking about it.

"Mister Y, can we have a Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow?"

He had just finished playing the piano and it was safe to talk to him – I quickly learnt never to interrupt him when he was engrossed in his music.

"I never celebrate Thanksgiving, Gustave. And I certainly won't be celebrating this year," he added darkly, "I lost the only woman I have ever loved. What have I got to be thankful for?"

_But you have me! _ I thought sadly. My heart ached when I realised that I could not take Mother's place.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Mister Y, your real name is Erik, isn't it? I heard Mother call you that when she was..dying."

"Yes, it is, why?"

"What's your surname?"

"I don't have one."

"But you must! Everyone has a surname!"

"Well, here in America I'm Mister Y and in France I had…other names..."

But he finally gave in. "My parents last name was Durand", he admitted with a sigh. "I suppose you could consider that my name too, although it is such a dull, ordinary name. Mister Y is far more mysterious."

"Erik Durand. I like that name. Am I Gustave Durand?"

He looked at me with a little sadness.

"You are my son and I would very much like you to have my last name. But I cannot force you. When you are old enough to decide, I will let you choose."

I nodded, but I'd already thought of another question.

"What were your parents like?"

"You should go back inside. It's getting cold."

"All right. But will you tell me about them when you tuck me in?"

"Perhaps.."

When he had tucked me in, I asked him again about his parents and where he was born. Reluctantly he told me a little of his story. But I almost wish he hadn't.

"I was born in a small village near Rouen," he began hesitantly. "My father was a master mason who was killed in an accident before I was born. My mother was an opera singer before she married and she was very beautiful. She longed for a son to comfort her in her grief. When I was born.."

He seemed to be struggling with the words and I regretted asking him. He fumbled with the bedclothes as he continued.

"When I was born, she hated me… She made me a mask, that was the first garment I ever wore..She always hated and feared me and kept me in the attic room, out of sight. I-I could only come downstairs if I wore my mask, or else she would beat me. She never touched me or kissed me. Once I begged her for a kiss and... and she screamed at me... And then.. then she made me look at my face in the mirror. I thought it was a monster…"

He was crying now and I was frightened. I did not know what to do.

But he kept going, his voice becoming more and more choked, "Your mother was the only woman who ever kissed me. She showed me such love and compassion, more that I'd ever known. She always loved me and she was going to stay with me forever. And now she's dead!"

Consumed with grief he staggered from the room and I tried to follow him.

"Get back into bed! Leave me alone! Isn't it enough that you made me tell you?"

"I'm sorry! Mister Y, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-"

Tears were running down my cheeks in fear and sadness.

"Just leave me!" he yelled, his face red with fury. I jumped back into bed and pulled the covers over my head. But I could still hear him weep, with more sorrow than I ever thought possible.

"Christine, my sweet Christine.. Why? Why did you have to leave me? I can't do this, I can't be a father…"

I could not shut out the sound and even when I finally slept I could still hear his uncontrollable weeping in my mind.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

There were so many things to think about now, like why was he in love with Mother all those years when she was married to Raoul? He often spoke of how he had wanted the three of us to live here together and even now he was telling me how Mother was going to stay with him. Surely he was not supposed to think of her like that? And that kiss, as she lay dying.. Only your husband could kiss you like that, or so I thought. In any case the word "divorce" barely existed for me back then.

He had loved her at the same time Raoul had, back in the Opera House; that much I knew. It would explain a little of Raoul's hatred of him. And yet she had not married Mister Y, or Erik as she knew him at the time. Why not, if she had loved him? He had adored her, worshipped her and now she was gone and he was left with me instead.

But what bothered and upset me the most was that story about his mother, and how she had refused to kiss him! Her own son! Such a thing was unthinkable for me. I felt so young and helpless. I could not give him all the love that he needed, could not make up for what his mother had done to him. But I knew I had to try. He always comforted me when I was upset just like he once comforted Mother. She had loved him and for her sake, I would try to comfort him.

I went to him the following evening after a dark, silent day. He was holding my photograph of Mother and looking at it sadly, his mask and wig on the table. Slowly I approached where he was sitting. _I must be brave_ I told myself.

He looked up at me curiously as I stood in front of him.

"I'm sorry your mother wouldn't kiss you," I told him softly.

Then I reached up and kissed his unmasked forehead. It was the first time I had kissed him, and I could hear him gasp. He lifted me into his lap and held me close.

"Such a good boy" he whispered, kissing the top of my head, "I'm sorry I was angry with you. None of what happened in the past was your fault. How could you have known?"

We sat in silence for a while as he held me. Then he said gently, "Next year, we will celebrate Thanksgiving together. I was wrong. I _do_ have something- _someone_ - to be thankful for."

And so did I.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Christmas was coming; our first one together and the streets of Manhattan were busier now. In some ways Mister Y preferred crowds as he could hide in them. We'd made several other visits to Greenberg's for toys, but now there was one particular toy I wanted for Christmas. It was an electric train set, with a beautifully painted train running on a track with bridges and tunnels. It was on display in the window and every time we passed it I had to stop and look. Other children would crowd around too. One day I peeped through the door to see an assistant demonstrating the set to a crowd of fascinated customers, as people brushed past me. I badly wanted to have a look as well.

"Come along, Gustave, we have a lot to do today," Mister Y told me sternly.

I followed him reluctantly but glanced back at the window before we set off.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Mister Y was looking into available properties in the area, within easy distance of the park. "This apartment is too small for us, Gustave. Before you came to live with me it was just somewhere for me to sleep, and eat a little. We need a proper home, something for the two of us. We're crammed into that bedroom and you will need your own space as you grow older, as well as somewhere to study,"

"But I like sleeping in the same room as you!"

"You need your own room; you won't be a little boy forever. There's a house that I'm thinking of, but we won't be going anywhere until after the New Year, so don't worry about anything yet."

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

Last Christmas was so different, with Raoul drinking heavily and Mother trying to put a brave face on things as usual. Last year I'd believed that Pere Noel, the French version of Santa Claus, had brought my presents but this year I wasn't so sure. So much had happened to me in the meantime.

I was allowed to join the church choir, which I loved. It kept me busy and I could meet other children who liked music. However, Mister Y still refused to come into the church with me on a Sunday morning, even when I was singing. I was not chosen to perform at Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, which I was secretly relived about. I knew I would have been the only child there without a parent.

But it snowed in the week before Christmas and I was so excited. Last year Louis and I had built a snowman and another day Mother and I had played together, before enjoying hot chocolate in front of the fire. This year, one of Joe's sons, Frank, helped me build an impressive looking snowman. He was 14 and the youngest of his three brothers but he was kind to me and played with me sometimes, despite teasing from his friends. Mister Y came out to admire our snowman but he was not enthusiastic about the idea of a snowball fight. In the evenings I played quietly with my toys while Mister Y composed on the piano or worked on his designs. So for most of the time I did not feel too sad, even though I still missed Mother and still thought of my old home occasionally.

I even persuaded Mister Y to put up some decorations and buy a tree, which he'd never done before. Trees were not popular in France so I really wanted to have one this year. All in all, our little apartment looked suitably festive when I woke up on Christmas morning.

"Merry Christmas Mister Y!" I yelled, jumping on to his bed.

He rolled over, grumbling and looked at his pocket watch. "Why did you have to waken me so early? Go back to sleep, child."

"But it's Christmas!"

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and looked at me, smiling mysteriously. "Well, then you'd better look under the tree, hadn't you?"

Intrigued I went to the living area to find a large parcel tied with a bow sitting under the tree. With childish eagerness I pulled off the wrapping and opened the box to find…

"The train set!" I cried, running towards Mister Y who had come to watch me open it. He laughed as I threw myself into his arms, thanking him over and over.

Later our friends, the Trio, joined us for Christmas dinner which was cooked by Miss Fleck. She enlisted my help too. I wasn't used to preparing meals, but I soon got into the swing of things, chopping vegetables, setting the table and doing any other jobs she asked of me. Household chores were new to me, but I could wash and dry dishes fairly well now, and Mister Y and me often cleaned and tidied the apartment together. After dinner we sang songs together and I showed everyone how my train set worked. Dr Gangle told us some ghost stories, in typical melodramatic fashion and Mister Y performed some card tricks, which he promised to teach me some time. Everything was so different from last year, in every way.

Much later, when we were alone, Mister Y made me hot chocolate and the two of us sat on the sofa. He was not yet convinced that hot chocolate was the best drink ever but he liked making it for me. I leaned my head against his shoulder, feeling happy and contented. After a comfortable silence he asked me about Christmas at the chateau.

"Last year we had goose for dinner but when I was little we had oysters and foie gras."

He raised an eyebrow at this expensive sounding dish and I thought I heard him scoff a little. He was not fond of the aristocracy, that much was clear by now. So to change the subject I told him about my presents instead, which interested him. "What did you do after the meal?" he asked me, "Did your mother sing?"

I looked down at the carpet. "Raoul got drunk and shouted at Mother when she tried to take the bottle away. He shouted at me too." I told him sadly. I did not really want to remember that though, or the way Grandmother had blamed Mother for her son's problem. Mister Y was not happy when he heard this. He never liked hearing about Grandmother's treatment of Mother or the snobby women that used to visit us, especially Madame du Laurent.

"That fool! That ignorant _boy!_" he fumed, "How dare he treat Christine that way! And as for that mother of his!"

I hung my head again. "I should have stood up for her more," I confessed sadly,

"Gustave, you're only a child and you were brought up to respect your elders, there wasn't much you could do," he sighed, calming a little. "And anyway, Christine was very lucky to have you as a son. I'm sure you were a great comfort to her."

"She used to tell me that sometimes."

"What a horrible world she lived in. She was just as trapped as you were, you know that?"

I realised how true that was.

"Some of her friends were nice, though." I tried to explain, but he was no longer listening.

"She should never have gone through all that; feeling out of place, putting up with gossip... That boy…I thought he would look after her, make her happy... That was why I..." His voice trailed off at this point as he looked at me but soon he resumed his rambling monologue. "If only I'd known! I wish I could have given you both a better life. I didn't even know you existed until a few months ago. Things would have been very different if I'd known Christine was expecting you."

But things hadn't been different. And somehow it didn't matter any more. I had a father now, a proper father, and a new home in an exciting world. Soon a new year would begin and then the preparations for Phantasma's next season. And who knew what adventures lay ahead?

I played some nice music for him on the piano and that calmed him a little. It was Christmas after all, and I did not want to talk about unpleasant things any more today. We tidied the room together and when we had finished I embraced him spontaneously. Chuckling, he lifted me up. "Thank you for a lovely day, Mister Y," I told him, and he smiled gently.

"My pleasure, Gustave, and thank you for sharing my happiest Christmas yet."

I was glad that he was not angry or upset any more and made up my mind to try and avoid telling him upsetting stories again. He loved me and now I wanted him to feel loved too. I'd always had Mother to love me, even during the bad times, and he'd never had anyone.

That night I climbed into Mister Y's bed and we slept in each other's' arms, at the end of our first Christmas together. That was the night I called him Papa for the first time.


	13. The Work of his Hands

**Just a few notes before you read Chapter 13. In relation to the background of the Trio: When I saw LND on the stage, the actor playing Mr Squelch (Simon Ray Harvey) looked mixed race, so this gave me an idea for his back story. He was an understudy and I realise that the character may be white in other productions, so apologies for any confusion.**

**Also - there will be a few dark, slightly disturbing moments in this chapter so I hope it won't upset anyone. Please review!**

I turned eleven in March of 1908 and my papa brought me to Mario's ice cream parlour on Surf Avenue for a birthday treat. He was still not comfortable with being out in public during the day and he did not enjoy trying to eat in public, but it humbled me to realise that he was willing to make this sacrifice for me. We sat in a quiet corner of the parlour with Papa glancing around from time to time to make sure no-one was watching. Coney Island in March? He needn't have worried.

I enjoyed a chocolate and strawberry sundae, which was new to me. It was served to me by Mario himself and I quickly set about demolishing it, savouring every mouthful. There were quite a few confectioners' shops in Paris which sold ice cream but normally I only had it for dessert or maybe a handful of other occasions before I came to America. Anyway the kind served here was much nicer. My lifelong fondness for ice cream began in Mario's; I think I must have tried every flavour he sold at some point. On that day, Mario brought an extra bowl and spoon, and Papa tried a little of my sundae, getting a lot of it on his mask, but I wiped it off for him, much to his embarrassment.

I had always liked sweet things but here in New York, there was every kind of sugary and unhealthy snack imaginable. Coney Island was quiet out of season which meant that queues were shorter, but unfortunately some eating establishments only opened in the summer.

Papa gave me a diary for my birthday and encouraged me to write in it – things that happened at school, stories that Mother used to tell me, all kinds of little things. Later that day I even wrote about my birthday treat. Inspired by this present I even tried to write my own stories and writing became another hobby of mine, which I still indulge in to this day. Papa also gave me some new books which I enjoyed; it was uncanny how he always knew what I liked.

I still called Papa Mister Y sometimes but he seemed to understand. He was sometimes irritable or bad tempered but I did everything I could to calm him and make him happy. I even tried making him breakfast occasionally; he always tried to act grateful for the cold porridge, burnt toast and watery coffee that I presented him with.

We planned to move into our new home in the Easter vacation. It was a fairly large house not too far from Phantasma with plenty of room for us both. As well as a large living room area there was a decent sized kitchen with room for a dining table. There were three bedrooms and the third bedroom would be used as a study. This meant that I could have my own room which I was excited about, although I would miss sleeping in the same room as my papa. Sometimes I still got in beside him to sleep in his embrace, for I knew the nightmares that he had and I wanted to soothe him, just as he did with me.

Some of the things he used to mutter in his sleep frightened me at first.

"Please, give me back my mask… Please, let me out! Let me out, I want to go home!"

Or "No, not again, please, leave me alone! Someone, help me!"

Not that I always slept peacefully either. I still dreamt of that night, and Meg trying to kill me in various ways. And then there was that dream that I've already written about; the one where I'm banging on the window of the chateau and Mother doesn't look up or let me in.. One night before we moved house I was in tears after I woke from that dream and Mister Y lifted me into his bed and held me in his arms. "Don't cry, Gustave darling, I'm here now. You are safe," he whispered softly. And whenever we fell sleep in each other's embrace no nightmares bothered us.

I did not ask him any more questions about his past. He was so troubled, so tortured… When he looked at Mother's photograph or played certain songs on the piano, there were often tears in his eyes and I simply left him alone at those times. I waited for him to tell me in his own time.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

There was one problem with our move – our beds would simply not fit down that spiral staircase. "I made mine up here, same as yours," he explained, and in the end we dismantled both of them, transported the pieces to the new house and rebuilt them in the appropriate bedroom. Papa and I worked on this together and it was good to learn another new skill. Back in France I could never have imagined doing manual work like this, but I found that I liked working with materials and putting things together. These skills have come in handy since then too. There was not much furniture in the old apartment so we traipsed around furniture stores as well as lumber yards, as Papa wanted to create as much of our new furniture as possible.

It felt strange to live in a normal house. The chateau had been huge, then I'd lived in that tiny apartment at the top of a tower and now I was in a proper home. _Our_ home, my father's and mine, and the best thing was that we created most of it together.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

In between school and homework, I was now helping with various odd jobs around the park, especially with getting it ready for the tourists. So many things to do! Painting, repairs, cleaning, trimming the grass, stocking up the food stands.. I never realised all the work involved behind the façade. Joe set me to work, cleaning down the rides and other jobs, things I could never imagine myself doing in my old life. And I loved it.

My first full season at Phantasma got off to a gloriously sunny start and indeed, this weather endured for most of the summer. That first season... when I think of it, I think of sunshine and happy families, children laughing, the carousel horses, the taste of toffee apples and hot dogs, and the Coney Island Waltz. That carousel tune was used at various locations around the park and I sometimes still find myself humming that evocative, lyrical melody which became such an integral part of my summers.

One of the most amusing sights was watching the Trio move about the park during the day, handing out flyers for the various shows and attractions. Dr Gangle tended to scare people a little, especially small children, but it was often the older children who were the most fascinated by him and his strange companions. Adults usually tried to avoid them. They had this uncanny ability to creep up on people quietly and startle them. Then, they would hand them the flyer and perhaps recite a rhyme about the show in three parts before bowing and curtseying in their elaborate way. It was funny to think that a few hours later they would be in our house, where they were regular visitors, perhaps helping to prepare dinner while talking casually about how the season was going, or perhaps just resting after a hard day's work, like normal people.

They were my friends now, the three of them; Dr Gangle would entertain me with funny songs, voices and stories in an attempt to cheer me up and Mr Squelch would lift me on to his shoulders as if I weighed nothing at all and carry me around the park. Sometimes he would run around with me and I would grab on to his head or his hair, trying not to fall off.

But it was Miss Fleck who I became closest to. She entertained me too, with cartwheels and backflips, which she tried to teach me to do. However, behind that façade lay a sadness that I only understood as I got older. She was the first of the Trio to tell me about her life, mostly during the times that she looked after me, when Papa was busy or meeting with employees.

As it happened, she was born in France into a circus family who travelled around most of Europe. She became part of her family's acrobatic act while still very young. All of her early life was spent travelling and performing and she spent many of those years in England. When she was seventeen, the circus stopped at a small town in southwest England for an extended period and while here she fell in love with a local boy. The two of them planned to marry after a brief courtship against the advice of both their families. She and her new husband eloped to a bigger town, but she was derided as a freak by the people around her because of her small size and her circus background. Worst of all, her husband was a drunkard who beat her regularly and called her a freak. After four years of abuse she ran away and managed to track down her family but they rejected her for marrying an "outsider". So she worked until she saved up enough of her wages and tips for a cheap passage to America.

On the ship, a musician told her about this place called Coney Island where he used to work and all the sideshows and attractions you could visit. And so after a short period working in a vaudeville theatre, she made her way to Coney and found the park called Phantasma where Mister Y hired her for his show.

I did not find much out about Dr Gangle, except that he grew up mainly in a French orphanage and somehow made his way to America. No doubt his tall, gangly build and strange appearance made him a target for bullies. "I was Dr Gangle from the day I was born!" he would announce proudly and it was easy to believe him. To be honest I could not imagine him working in an office or a store – he was just too strange.

Mr Squelch's swarthy complexion was the only clue to his background – he was the grandson of a black slave who escaped from the Deep South to the northern "free states" before the Civil War and married a white servant. He told me of his father's early death, how he and his mother moved around a lot and how he had been bullied growing up. He was surprisingly strong as a child and as he grew older he cultivated his unusual strength to fight his tormentors. After his mother died when he was only 15, he worked at various labouring jobs then ran away to join a circus where he perfected his trademark act with the help of another circus "strongman". After the circus broke up several years later he came to New York, having heard about the shows of Coney Island. Apparently he got his current job after he lifted Mister Y above his head along with the chair he was sitting on, but he advised me not to tell my papa that I knew this.

All of them were bullied and rejected in the "normal" world. Here in Phantasma their oddness and unusual skills were an asset. The Trio, as they became known, arrived here around the same time and so they began their unique partnership. Phantasma was where they felt most comfortable. They were happy to go into the town for provisions but rarely ventured further afield. The three of them lived on the edge of the park where many of the performers and freaks lived, in three separate caravans. And there was something else which puzzled me as I got older – there was never any romantic attraction between Miss Fleck and either of her companions nor, as far as I knew, did they ever date anyone else. I suppose Miss Fleck found it hard to trust men after her experiences, but I have no idea about the other two. Yet despite this unusual arrangement the three of them were there for each other and were almost inseparable. Like a family, almost. Years later, when I found out that Miss Fleck could not have children I began to understand why she was always so fond of me when I was a motherless young boy.

This was one of Phantasma's best seasons; indeed it was a boom time for the rest of Coney Island too. That year, and all the other years before the First World War... they were the glory years, although we did not realise it at the time. With school over for the summer I often accompanied my three friends around the park after completing my chores, usually on Mr Squelch's shoulders, with Miss Fleck telling him to be careful and Dr Gangle walking ahead of us waving that bizarre top hat at people. All the attendants knew us and my friends often paid for me to go on my favourite rides. In the evenings I watched the shows with my father from his private, screened box at the back of the theatre, but no operatic arias were ever performed there again. He showed me all his secret entrances and passageways in the theatre, and I felt so privileged to be sharing this knowledge with him.

I was a child, eagerly exploring my new culture and identity, getting to know the people of Phantasma, finding my way in this exciting world. These were some of the happiest days of my life… and some of the worst.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

On the first anniversary of Mother's death, the two of us stood at the fateful spot on the beach as the sun was setting and the visitors were going back to their hotels. We did not want a ceremony or memorial service, nothing like that. Dressed as formally as ever in mask, cloak and gloves, Papa stood at my side with his arm around me and we just spent a few minutes thinking about Mother. I tried not to think of that night. I tried to think of her alive and happy, walking down a street in Paris, tucking me in, singing with me at the piano... And yet still that gunshot rang out in my mind and still I could feel her slipping from my arms.

"I miss Mother," I whispered, and I began to cry. _When will I stop crying?_ I thought in frustration. "I miss her too," Papa replied softly, stroking my hair.

"I miss her all the time. It hurts when I think of her sometimes. Why does it still hurt? I thought I'd stopped crying…" I could not bear to be in this place anymore and it was a relief when Papa led me away by the hand. Even though I was eleven, I still liked when he held my hand. Especially at times like this.

"I shouldn't have gone with Meg. If I'd stayed in the theatre, Mother wouldn't have died."

"You can't think like that, Gustave. I've told you before, Meg would have found a way.."

I made no reply. Papa knelt abruptly in front of me and made me look at him.

"Listen to me, child. No-one should have died that night, not you, not Christine. And anyway.. I have to take my share of the blame for what happened, for what my blindness did to Meg..." He seemed troubled and slowly he rose to his feet and took my hand again.

That night, I lay in my bed sobbing as I thought about Mother and how much I missed her. Papa felt that I should be sleeping in my own bed now, but I never needed his embrace more. However he was not in his bedroom, so I made my way downstairs where he was still sitting in his armchair just staring into space, his face unmasked. When I sat on his knee, he put his arms around me.

"I wish Mother was here," I told him sadly.

"I know, Gustave. You don't have to be ashamed that you still miss her, or that you cry over her. I know you live with me now, but you don't ever have to forget her. You should always treasure her memory. I know I will…" He closed his eyes, no doubt thinking of his own grief.

"At least I still have you," he murmured sadly after a little while and I rested my head against his chest. "But I won't always, will I? You'll be a grown man in a few years." He looked at me pleadingly, as if he was begging me to contradict him.

"You'll always have me, Papa," I told him gently and the look of relief on his face was palpable. He sang to me, wrapping me in a cocoon of safety with that beautiful voice. I fell asleep in his arms, and when I woke much later I was in my own bed, with my bear tucked in beside me.

Looking back, what if the outcome of that fatal night had been different? I cannot imagine how Mother would have coped if Meg had succeeded in drowning me. Nor do I want to guess what would have happened if I'd stayed where I was supposed to be, or if I'd managed to escape, or if…

Too many "what if's" and "if onlys" surrounding that night. All pointless now I suppose.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

School started again, much to my disappointment. My English was rapidly improving and I could read and write fairly well in that language, but the best part of my education was when my father taught me at home – music, architecture, design.. there seemed no end to his knowledge.

And he was a magician too! That discovery fascinated me as I did not know much about magic. He was very willing to teach me though and with endless patience he taught me some card tricks and common sleight of hand tricks such as taking a coin (or at least seeming to..) from behind someone's ear. The more complex tricks always eluded me, but I was happy just to know the simpler ones. Even now I'm proud to say I've never revealed the secrets. They are useful at parties for those times when everyone's starting to get bored.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

It was around this time that I made the discovery that changed things. Not completely but a little. I came home from school one afternoon and went straight to the Aerie to help my father with his designs. After we left the tower we met Joe who wanted to talk to Papa about some re-painting that needed to be done. As I stood there waiting for him I realised that I had left my maths textbook up in the Aerie, as I had been working on my homework as well. With Papa engrossed in his conversation I quickly ran back up the spiral staircase.

I found the book straight away, on the table, but lingered for a while, looking around this strange room and remembering the first time I had come here. So many odd creations! It struck me then that I had never been here on my own. Papa did not allow me to come here without him, and this was the day that I found out why.

Something caught my eye over in a dark corner. It was a circular platform of some kind, with a curtain drawn around it and it was new to me. Was it concealing a new automaton that I hadn't seen yet? But Papa always showed me his new inventions. I turned on the electric lamp to brighten that side of the room a little.

Curiosity got the better of me and I crept over to have a closer look. Pulling back the curtain, I gasped. It _was_ a new automaton! Or one I hadn't seen yet anyway. Its back was turned to me and I pulled at it to see what it was. It was female anyway; it had long curly hair and was wearing a green dress. I tugged at it again to pull it from its place and turned it around. Clumsily I held its head to the light – and got the shock of my life.

The chestnut curls, that smile, those eyes... _It was my mother!_

"Gustave, why are you up there again?"

Instantly I dropped it with a clatter. I opened my mouth to scream but no sound came out.

There were footsteps running up the staircase. My papa's footsteps…"What was that noise? Are you all right?"

He entered the Aerie and I stared at him, trembling. When he saw the doll of my _mother_ lying on the ground, he knew.

"Oh God, no, Gustave…"

I was incoherent with fear and kept babbling, while pointing to the doll.

"Gustave, I'm so sorry, I never wanted you to find out like this.."

"Wh-why... Why have you g-got... that's my.."

"Please, don't be scared. It's just something that I made-"

"You made- you m-made a doll? Of Mother?"

My voice was getting higher and more frantic. More light came on in the room now and I shielded my eyes from that..object on the floor. I watched in horror as Papa walked over casually and lifted her – no, _it_ – up into a standing position again. And my horror increased as I saw how gently he handled it, gazing at it adoringly as if it really was her... It was so lifelike too, with realistic hair and skin…No it wasn't her! She was dead!

"Look, let me show you how it works," he told me gently.

"You mean it moves as well?" I whispered hoarsely. _This cannot be happening…_

"I created this to remind me of her, when I first came here. I loved her so much…"

He touched that lifelike hair, his voice wavering. Trembling, I backed away as he operated a control on its back and the arms reached out in my direction.

"No!" I screamed, running down the stairs as fast as I could. And I was still shaking as I ran out of the park and all the way down the street into the town. Before I could think about what I was doing, I found myself outside St Michael's church, where I practically flung myself into the sacred building, ignoring the startled looks of the other parishioners who were at prayer. Panting, confused and frightened, I sat down hastily in my usual pew and tried to recover my breath and gather my thoughts.

_Who is he? How could he build such a thing?_

I could think of no answers, no explanation, as I just sat there and prayed for a long time.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I went home eventually. I had to. Father Donovan, the friendly Irish curate, found me in the church in tears but I could not tell him the full story. How could I have explained? He was kind to me as usual and guessed that my papa and I had fallen out over something. We prayed together and he gently advised me to go home and put things right. Then he even walked me home, making small talk in that thick accent which I was getting used to by now. He made sure I went into the house, but did not linger for a chat with my father.

Papa and I did not talk that evening. He made my dinner and set it down in front of me then played the piano for hours. Finally I went and stood in front of him and he stopped abruptly then turned to face me.

"Firstly, you should have told me where you were going instead of just running back up the stairs while I was busy. Secondly, you should not have been exploring on your own. Those items are still my property. And thirdly, you should not have run off. I had no idea where you were, and this is not a safe town to wander around."

"Why?" I asked him, my voice a whisper, and he knew what I was talking about. Defeated, he sighed and leaned forward, putting his face in his hands.

"You must understand, Gustave, I loved your mother very much and when I first came to America, I missed her terribly. I ached for her every day. And when I bought Phantasma and set up my Aerie it was one of the first things I made. So that she would be with me, in a way."

"But she wasn't with you. She was in France, with her husband and with me."

He stood up quickly, slamming down the piano lid which made me jump.

"He didn't deserve to be her husband! He treated her like dirt! You told me that yourself!"

Hastily I tried to get back to the original subject, distasteful as it was.

"It's wrong... You can't have a model of her, it's not.."

But I couldn't explain what I thought. I just knew, even at eleven, that it was wrong.

"Please" I begged him, "Don't leave it up there. I don't like it. It frightens me."

He looked at me with sadness in his eyes. Finally he spoke.

"All right, son. If it bothers you that much I will get rid of it."

I breathed a sigh of relief and went to get ready for bed. But I did not kiss Papa goodnight.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

It was a relief to go to school and be around children whose fathers worked in offices or stores and did normal things like reading the newspaper by the fire in the evening. School was a different world to the one I usually lived in with my papa and his designs, his strange music.. and his automaton of my mother.

After a few days he came to me and told me that he had destroyed it, and showed me a few pieces to prove it. It was a relief, but I knew that it could not have been easy for him. He destroyed something that was precious to him, so that I would not be scared any more.

When we were both sitting down he spoke again.

"I'm sorry, Gustave. I shouldn't have shown you how it moved, that was stupid and insensitive of me. I don't know why I did it. And.. I suppose you were bound to find it at some point."

I just sat there with my head bowed.

"I don't blame you for running off like that. Of course you were frightened, I can see that now. Please, child, please forgive me. I will never frighten you like that again."

I did forgive him in the end. I thought about how much he loved me, of all he did for me, how he comforted me, how he tried to be a father to me despite his lack of experience. And how neither of us had anyone else. He was my father at the end of the day and yes, he was very strange and sometimes I could not understand him, but I still loved him, and I love him to this day.

But I now knew the depths of his obsessive love for my mother and that frightened me.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Thinking back on it now.. I have spent so long trying not to think of that strange discovery and my reaction to it. As an adult, I still find it disturbing, but it was just one of the many eccentricities that I associate with Papa.

And despite the strangeness of it all it makes me think of how he loved my mother and how little time they had together as a couple. Most of their last moments together were spent searching frantically for me. In many ways she was more of a memory to him than a real person.

I wrote most of this in stages over the last few days, as I have been occupied with various jobs around the house and in the garden. But tonight I am taking my wife out to dinner to celebrate our anniversary. Forty four years! She tells me jokingly that "No-one else would put up with you for that long!" but at least we have been granted all that time together, unlike my parents. What kind of marriage would they have had, I wonder?

Still so many "what ifs" and "if onlys". I need to forget about them for a while and appreciate the here and now.


	14. Coaxed from Shadow

It was several nights before I joined my father on the balcony again. We tiptoed carefully around each other, metaphorically, not daring to mention the subject again. For a while, that stiff, lifeless face haunted my dreams and waking hours, that face which was so like the one I knew, and yet nothing like it. It was not Mother; that much I knew, and I hoped Papa was beginning to realise that too.

At school, I would be trying to concentrate on the lesson, and that image would swim across my mind. There was one day that it was particularly vivid - I could see those arms reaching out for me as it walked towards me, wearing that same dress that Mother had died in...

"Gustave!"

That jolted me out of my daydream.

"If you know so much about long division that you can afford to stare out the window while I'm talking, would you kindly come up to the blackboard and work out this sum, please?"

"Yes, Miss Mackenzie," I muttered distractedly, still trembling a little. There were a few stifled giggles behind me as I got up and went to the board, my teacher's beady gaze never leaving me. Thankfully I was able to solve the complicated sum and sheepishly returned to my desk. I just sat there trying to get that stupid automaton out of my mind. It was so unfair. Why did I have to have a father like that? No-one else did.

At recess, Miss Mackenzie asked me to stay behind for a few minutes, just as I'd dreaded. She told me that I'd been daydreaming a lot lately and while I was bright, she did not tolerate lazy students. She ended by saying that I needed to apply myself more. It was true. I could not let her write a letter home to my father, telling him that I wasn't listening in class, regardless of the reason. And I certainly did not want her turning up at the house. She was not as sympathetic as Miss Philips, and I did not want to imagine the conversation she would have with Papa. Dejectedly I made my way out to the schoolyard.

"Are you all right, Gustave? Miss Mackenzie's a grumpy old thing, isn't she? "

It was George Kimmel, who sat next to me in class. We'd started to become friends since the start of term, when he'd moved to the area and he was my first proper American friend of my own age.

"Just told me not to daydream in class, that's all. It was fine."

We played marbles together until the bell rang and we had to go back inside. I sat down, determined to work hard in school and make Papa proud of me. But I knew I could not tell George what had happened. Whenever he, or anyone else, asked I just replied that I didn't sleep much last night.

George and I walked some of the way home together as we often did. He talked about how his stepmother was baking cookies today for after dinner and how he was looking forward to them. When we parted company, I headed to Phantasma and to the Aerie where my father was working as usual. He did not walk me home from school or church as often now that I was eleven and could be trusted more. But he still worried about me.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

One day, just before Thanksgiving, George asked me if I would like to come to his house for dinner and to play.

"Thank you, that sounds great!" I replied, without thinking.

When I left him, I wondered how I was going to tell Papa. Usually after school we spent time in the Aerie together, where I would do my homework and we might spend some time working on our designs or on other Phantasma business before walking home together for our dinner. Afterwards we would play music together or read. We had settled back into a nice routine by now, following the Automaton Incident. And this would be the first time I went to another child's house since I began living with him.

While I dried the dishes I planned how to ask him. Realising it was best to do it when he wasn't busy I waited until we were settled down with our books.

"Papa.."

"Yes, dear?" He looked up at me.

"Erm.. It's just that.. this boy in my class, George.. you remember, the boy I told you about?"

He nodded.

I rubbed the back of my neck, which was becoming a nervous habit of mine.

"Well, he's.. invited me to his house on Friday and I was just wondering if I could go?" I spoke quickly to get it out of the way. He put down his book and looked at me.

"This Friday?"

I nodded.

"Well..of course you must go, if he's invited you. Does he live nearby?"

I named the street. It was no more than ten minutes away.

"Well, I don't see why not. I will come and walk you home though as it will be dark when you are leaving."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

It was a lovely afternoon. We were able to play out on the street for a while and then George's stepmother, who he called Aunt Jane, made us a lovely meal with apple pie for dessert. He lost his mother when he was three and did not have many clear memories of her. I suppose that brought us together in a way. His stepmother knew about my history – was there anyone on Coney Island that didn't? – and fussed around me, not really sure whether to sympathise with me at this stage, I suppose.

Papa came for me as he promised, surprising "Aunt Jane" and George's father with his strange appearance. He thanked them graciously for their hospitality although I noticed how he fidgeted a little and looked at the ground, his hat firmly set at an angle to hide the mask. He seemed anxious to set off so after saying goodbye to George, I took his hand quickly, not wanting him to feel any more awkward than he clearly did already. But despite this, it almost felt normal, to be honest; a father coming to walk his son home from his friend's house. And although he did not linger for a chat or a cup of tea as would normally be the case, it was progress.

"That poor boy," I could hear Mrs Kimmel saying to her husband, as we hurried away. _How much longer will people see me_ _as "the son of that dead singer_"? I wondered.

Papa didn't say anything but I knew he'd been lonely. There was one solitary plate drying beside the sink as I entered the kitchen and I wondered if he had eaten much when I was not around to coax him. He gazed at me in that adoring way as we sat together on the sofa that night and I told him about my day. We were silent for a while and I leaned against his shoulder, feeling content. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself today," he said gently.

"Did the Trio come over?" I asked hopefully.

"No, they were at some party, with a few of the other performers," he replied.

"So you were alone?"

"Gustave, it doesn't matter. I've spent most of my life alone. One evening is nothing really, and anyway, here you are back with me again."

"Can we go somewhere together tomorrow?"

"We'll see," he chuckled, kissing the top of my head, "Now, off you go and get into your pyjamas."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The weather in Coney Island out of season was often wet and stormy so if it was a weekend I usually stayed in and Papa taught me to play chess. Mother and I used to play draughts when it rained but she didn't know how to play chess and Raoul didn't have the patience to teach me. However Papa was a good teacher, as always. Both of us enjoyed playing with my train set and he also taught me to play the violin and the flute. I have never met anyone who could play so many musical instruments.

If the evenings were dry we would wrap up warmly and fly my kite from the balcony. The other balcony on the tower had been higher up and caught more of the wind, but it was still fun. No doubt local residents thought they were seeing things – a masked man and a young boy flying a kite at night in winter…

As Papa had promised, we celebrated Thanksgiving that year. Just like at Christmas, the Trio joined us and Miss Fleck surpassed herself as our cook. Indeed, all five of us knew we had much to be thankful for, and we would go on to celebrate many more such holidays together. The meal was delicious and the next day Joe and his wife Alice took me downtown to see the "ragamuffin parade" which was a popular, if rather boisterous, event at the time.

Winter was well and truly here and I caught a horrible cold that day. True to form, Papa fussed over me as if I were made of glass, reading to me and generally treating me like a three year old. This was the first time I'd been sick since I came to live with him and it was a new experience for him. He had a range of homemade remedies and seemed to know a lot about medicine and the human body. He was so learned and could not wait to teach me all he knew.

"What are these things ?" I asked him between sneezes, nodding at the jars on my bedside table.

"Most of them are old gypsy remedies," he replied, and I began wondering again about his life and how he knew so much about things like gypsy remedies.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

It became too cold to sit outside, but we always found plenty to do inside. One quiet evening as we sat reading together I decided to ask him how he knew so many things, thinking it would be a fairly harmless question.

He leaned back in his armchair and closed his eyes. For a moment I thought he'd gone to sleep, he was so still. When he opened them, he spoke with sadness.

"From books, mainly. But when I was a small boy, living in my...mother's house, I had a tutor who taught me all kinds of things."

"Like me!"

"Yes, child, but for very different reasons… He was a professor as well, and he taught me architecture, mathematics... I was thirsty for every kind of knowledge. It frightened my mother. And there was the local priest, Father Mansart. He used to come and visit me, bringing Mother Communion and teaching me the Catechism and my prayers. But most of the time, I was alone in my attic room and I read a lot."

I felt sad that he'd been kept away from school. He went on to tell me about his dog, Sasha, and we marvelled at how we both liked dogs. "She was wonderful, my only friend, really. My face never bothered her. I've noticed that with animals"

"What happened to her?"

He swallowed nervously and I opened my mouth to change the subject but he continued.

"She was killed by a gang of local boys. They hated me you see, and they used to attack my mother's house, taunting us both and threatening her. Sasha was outside that night, and…" His voice trailed off and I sat on the arm of his chair and took his hand.

"That's... awful. I'm so sorry. Poor Sasha." I looked away sadly, thinking of Alfie.

"It was after that night when I ran away. I was about nine at the time, but I knew my mother would never be safe with those villagers threatening her and hating her."

Nine years old? I could not imagine running away at that age, or living rough as Papa was describing to me, sleeping out in the fields.

"I came across a gypsy encampment after a few days," he continued sorrowfully. "I crept up to it, thinking to beg for food, but I scared one of the horses and they found me. They.. beat me..."

I looked at him in horror.

"When I woke up I was in a cage. That was my new home. They had a travelling show you see, a sort of fair, and they travelled around France, putting me on display. People would come and look at me. They called me "The Devils Child". I had to sit in that cage, with people gawping and laughing, throwing things at me, spitting at me…"

"But that's.. how could they do that to you? You had to live in a _cage_?"

He described how there were lots of other "exhibits", people with various deformities, disabilities and freakish appearances, like the man without legs who did all kinds of gymnastics with his arms alone, or the Siamese twins. "The Devils Child" was just another exhibit, living and sleeping in that cage, to make money for his owner.

"You had an_ owner_?"

He put his head in his hands and started to tremble. I wanted to tell him to stop, but he kept going. Perhaps he needed to tell me.

"I hated him. He was a drunkard, a violent thug... He beat me.. He made me wear a sack over my head, to cover my face. Except when there were customers around, of course."

He looked at me with such sadness that tears welled in my eyes.

"He used to beat me if I refused to let him take it off. Or if he didn't make enough money. He did.. oh God.. He did things to me.. t-terrible things.."

He was crying uncontrollably now and I put my arms around him. "It's all right Papa, don't cry, please don't cry.."

With all the strength that was within him, he held me against him, almost crushing me.

"My boy, my precious, innocent boy.. No one will ever hurt you like that, I swear it.."

He frightened me with this fierce affection. All this dark emotion within him, all these terrible things that had happened to him. And what could I do, except try to comfort him?

And I was angry too. How dare someone put him, or anyone else, in a cage? How dare someone call themselves his _owner_?

It would be several years before he told me, that he had been put on display again, only this time in America when he first arrived on these shores. That still makes me angry, even now, although I doubt that the people responsible are still alive. How could he be treated like a freak in the so-called New World? At any rate, there were other gaps in his story to be filled in before that, like a tantalising jigsaw puzzle.

But after this revelation about his life, no, his_ existence_, with the gypsies I began to see him differently. He was not like other men, that was for sure. He created a replica of the woman he loved, he hid in the shadows of an Opera House and pretended to be an angel, he was full of dark anger... and perhaps this was why – his whole life had not been like other men's lives. I wondered how he'd managed to escape from that dreadful fair. That was for another day, though. In the meantime, I knew one thing.

He needed me, just as much as I needed him.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I continued to settle into this new life, which did not feel as new as it used to. Although George became my best friend I made other friends at school, and we always played together at recess. I learnt all kinds of new games from them. In addition, a new sport entered my consciousness around this point – baseball. There was a similar French sport called le soule which was sometimes played in the village near my old home, but I'd never played it myself. At this time, baseball was starting to sweep the nation and I was carried along by this tide of enthusiasm. I learnt about the different teams, the players and the strange terminology. I collected baseball cards which Joe gave me from his cigarette packets and I eagerly swapped duplicates with my new friends. This was a proper life, a world away from my early years.

My father watched these developments with contentment, happy that I was settling in. And yet... sometimes I could see sadness in his eyes as I described our games and our exploits. Perhaps it was because this kind of childhood had been denied to him. Or because I was able to play outside, or walk down a street, or do anything, without feeling the curious stares of others. Once, when I told him I was invited to a birthday party on a Saturday, he tried to hide his disappointment. He'd been busy with meetings regarding Phantasma and wanted to spend some time with me. But he let me go and even accompanied me into the town to buy a present for the boy in question.

It was a great party, with a delicious birthday tea, a cake, some games and a treasure hunt where we solved fairly challenging clues to help us find various objects around the house and the garden. But the whole time I was there, I couldn't help thinking of my father.

He came to walk me home, but waited for me at a distance, so that the other children could not see him. There were too many people around this time. When we got home, he made me hot chocolate and listened as I told him about the party.

"It's good you are making friends your own age," he told me, with a hint of sadness. "I suppose you will be going to more parties now, and going to George's house, all that kind of thing. You need to have friends, I realise that." His voice trailed off and he stroked my hair gently.

"You should never feel awkward about asking me if you can go somewhere. I don't expect you to stay in all the time, just to keep me company. And how about you invite George here for dinner some night? You haven't returned his invitation yet."

I looked up at him in surprise.

"Can I?"

"Of course!"

"Thank you, Papa!" I hugged him and he chuckled.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Of course I worried about how the evening would go. Who wouldn't? But it turned out better than I'd hoped. We both agreed in advance that Papa would wear his mask and that we would use English even though it was one of our designated "French days". But still… He was so reclusive and strange, and what if he produced some new, scary looking invention, or played that dark, horrible music that he sometimes composed when he was angry? Or what if he lost his temper with George and he never came back?

But it was fine. George already knew about the mask from my visit to his house and promised not to ask questions about it. He was not the nosy or disrespectful type anyway. They actually got along quite well, despite my friend's initial nerves, with Papa greeting him with a warm handshake. Luckily we had just got our Christmas holidays and that gave us something to talk about. George told us about his aunt, uncle and cousins who were coming to stay over Christmas and how he was looking forward to seeing them, as they lived some distance away. And Papa was discreet, leaving us alone to play and later on, playing some nice music on the piano for us. He made us all a delicious chicken stew for dinner and managed eat a decent portion of it.

After my friend had left, Papa and I sat in the living room, happy with how everything had gone and reluctant to go to bed just yet. "Thank you," I told him softly, hugging him. He returned my hug, chuckling a little.

"My pleasure. You have a very nice friend. I'm so glad.."

He just held me for a while and I didn't have the heart to break away from his embrace. Then he spoke again, with a hint of that perennial sadness.

"You are such a good child, you know. And yet, you won't always be a child. I've missed out on so much of your life, ten whole years.. Some day you will be a man and you might want to get married and leave me.."

"I'm never getting married. Girls are silly."

He laughed, easing the intense atmosphere.

"I feel you will change your mind about that in a few years!" He ruffled my hair playfully, and I left him to go upstairs and get ready for bed.

When Papa came to sit with me, I listened to him tell me a story then lay down under the covers.

"Gustave, I was thinking.. perhaps you would like to go downtown tomorrow and go to a concert?"

"A concert? That sounds great! I've never been to a concert before."

I was happy that night. I'd had a nice day with my friend and now I would spend time with my father tomorrow.

Yes, those were happy years, despite everything. Just like my summers, the off seasons were full of adventures, discoveries and new experiences. All the little outings that my father and I had together, walking downtown, through crowded streets and past staring eyes, visiting parks, shops, cafés, travelling through a busy, vibrant city on trains, subways and streetcars, not to mention all the wonderful music we listened to in New York's concert halls. A good time to be alive and young.

Those were indeed some of the best years of my life... and the worst.


	15. Under Cover of Darkness

**This will be my last chapter for a little while so happy Christmas to you all!**

**"And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us"**

**OOOOOOOOOOO**

It was time to consult some alternative sources. Yesterday George and I met for lunch at our favourite café – a proper French café, not some modern, fake looking emporium. Ever since he moved back from California after his retirement, we've met in this place as often as we can, putting the world to rights and complaining about young people, the war, the government..

"I keep telling you, Gustave, this country would be a much better place-"

"-If the two of us were in Congress! You're absolutely right, old friend."

But when all our complaints were over and done with, we got talking about the past as we often do these days, and my attempts to capture it on paper. I tell him about how I've been writing about the first time he came to my home for dinner.

"Yes, I remember that too, of course! My goodness, your father… I know you like to defend him, Gus, but seriously, what a strange character… No wonder you were so nervous about bringing me home to meet him! But he was friendly enough, despite.. everything.."

"Yes.. " I sigh wistfully, "I miss him so much.. All these years later.."

We sat in silence for a while. How did we become so old? Five minutes ago we were playing marbles in the schoolyard and trying to hit home runs. And now..

"I couldn't believe it that day when you phoned me up and said you were living in New York again," I told him, "And when we met up again, it was just like old times. Well, kind of.. And now here we are, two old coots, droning on about the good old days. Never thought it would happen, did we, when we were youngsters running around Coney Island."

"I know" he sighed, leaning back in his chair, "Where do the years go?"

Yes, we have shared so much, whether it is though letters or conversations down crackly telephone lines, or latterly, face to face. But there is so much George never knew, and still doesn't know. Like the times when my Papa told me about his dark past…

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

It was my questions over the gypsy potions and cures that got him talking the next time. I fell on the ice in the January of 1909 and sprained my wrist. Papa fussed over me yet again, with such care and gentleness, rubbing the contents of one of his mysterious jars on the injured wrist.

"How did you learn about these things?" I asked, wincing a little at the burning sensation.

When he'd finished treating me he brought me into the sitting room and sat opposite me in his armchair.

After a little while, as if he needed to gather his thoughts, he told me about the wise woman who travelled with the fair.

"She had a great gift for healing and she was sometimes called on to attend to the wounds on my back, but only if they were particularly bad," he began softly. I looked down at his wrists and looked at those scars which had bothered me ever since I first saw them. He never left the house without his black gloves to cover them up and sometimes even wore them at home.

"Wounds? From your…

"Owner, yes.."

I looked away sadly. He never let me see him without a shirt or nightshirt on and this was why.

"Is that how you got the scars on your wrists too?"

"No, Gustave. They exist because when my mother showed me my face I was so terrified of what I saw that I smashed the mirror. A friend of hers bandaged them for me. This lady was kind to me sometimes but she was too scared of my mother to argue with her."

Yet again I felt guilty for asking a question. "I'm sorry, Papa."

"What for? Anyway, yes, the wise woman in the travelling fair.. Yes, sometimes I was allowed out of my cage at night to sit by the fire. That was when she taught me. She was no kinder to me than anyone else, she only taught me so that she wouldn't have to touch me or come near me any more."

His voice was steady and matter-of-fact. I trembled, unable to imagine what dark horrors he had already lived through. The sound of a mirror smashing echoed in my mind...

"I'm sorry," I whispered again, unable to think of anything else.

"It is good to know about remedies and such things," he shrugged, "and they have certainly come in handy with you around."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Despite my injury he still made me go to school. "Your eyes and ears are still working, aren't they?" he reminded me drily. Everyone took pity on me, even Miss Mackenzie, so it wasn't too bad although baseball and other games had to be put on hold for a while.

But in between school and other mundane things, as I sat on the sofa with my arm in a homemade sling, Papa also told me about his escape, four years after he had been captured.

"Oh, you were only there for four years," I remarked in relief.

He glared at me and I shook, for I knew that dark look too well.

"_Only_ four years!" he scoffed, "Try living like that for four _weeks_ and see how well you get on!"

"I'm sorry! Truly I am, I just didn't think-"

"Do you want me to tell you this story or not?"

I was quiet then and I waited for him to calm down and resume his story.

"I would have been there a lot longer if Madame Giry hadn't found me-"

"Madame Giry?" I exclaimed, before clamping my hands over my mouth, instantly sorry for interrupting.

He glared at me again and then continued.

"She wasn't called Madame Giry then of course. I think she was about 18 at the time. She lived in the Opera House dormitories, just like your mother did and like her she was training to be a ballerina. She and some of the other girls had sneaked out of the Opera House to visit the fair, which was camped in a field somewhere outside Paris at the time. They were lured into the tent, along with a few others, by my owner, telling them to come and see the Devils Child. Well, he pulled the sack off my head and paraded me around as usual, and people laughed and screamed, and everything was just the same as it always was... Except for Antoinette – that's Madame Giry's Christian name. She just stood there looking at me, not with contempt or fear, but with sadness and pity. I will never forget that look."

He was silent for a while and I waited patiently for him to continue.

"She helped me escape," he stated simply. "She helped me get away from that prison, and she brought me to the Opera House, the two of us running all the way, breathless and frightened."

"Did your owner chase after you?"

"No," he replied, looking away from me and fidgeting with a button on his shirt, "He...he did not.. Antoinette sneaked me into the building through a grille at the side and brought me all the way down to the fifth cellar. There are several levels beneath that Opera House you know, and you can remain there for a long time without ever being discovered. As I did, for many years."

"You mean you lived there? In a cellar?" I gasped.

"It was safe. I was far away from people and their cruelties. In between her lessons, Antoinette brought me food and clothing, along with books from the vast Opera House library. I read everything I could get my hands on. She was kind to me, often risking getting into trouble. I was grateful to her…back then."

"What happened then?"

"Well, six years later my protector left to get married and become Madame Giry. Some office clerk called Pierre Giry, apparently. And I had to fend for myself. I was nineteen by then, but I was not like other nineteen year olds. I was full of hatred and anger towards mankind, and the one person who I respected and trusted had abandoned me, or at least that was how I chose to see it. So I stole food from the kitchen. And I… borrowed from the company itself. Props, scenery, materials, tools... you would be surprised what is left lying around a theatre, you know.."

I wondered exactly how many items he had "borrowed".

"I was building a world for myself, you see. Not one where I would be dependent on a hateful parent or a group of vagabonds or a well-meaning dancer, but where I would be the undisputed master... And I wanted a realm fit for a king. So I became the Opera Ghost."

"You became a ghost? How can you be a ghost when you're still alive?"

"Oh, Gustave," he sighed, leaning forward and putting his face in his hands for a while. He sighed and I dared not move. When he looked up, he looked so sad that I went to sit beside him.

"You must understand, son, I was not the person I am now. I had so much hatred and contempt inside me… To be honest it started off quite simply. I used to explore all the cellars and passageways around the building, before I learned to creep around unnoticed, and all my comings and goings created rumours that there was a ghost in the building. Theatre folk love all that kind of thing. The kitchen staff were particularly superstitious and I used to leave notes for them, asking for food to be left out for me at a particular time or I would come and haunt them. And... it worked. I could eat and survive.

"So gradually I extended my methods to the rest of the Opera House, namely the management. Thankfully the manager at the time was an ignorant buffoon who proved to be as gullible as his staff. And so the Opera Ghost began to earn a salary, which meant that he could buy food on the occasions that he needed it and live in relative comfort for a change."

"You had a salary? For being a ghost?"

"It sounds ridiculous now, doesn't it? People flocked to that place, not for the music, of course, which was mediocre at best in those days, but to see if they could spot the infamous ghost! I knocked over some scenery, made a few spooky noises, threw my voice a little…"

He was trying to sound indifferent and contemptuous, but there was a look in his eyes that I could not fathom... When he named his monthly "fee" I was incredulous.

"They all deserved it, all vain, conceited peacocks, every one of them. And the manager knew nothing about opera, he just knew the right people."

"Yes, but..."

"I made him very wealthy and all he ever did was complain about me. " His tone was dismissive, but I thought I saw some sign of humanity in those eyes. Perhaps regret? I truly hoped it was.

He sat there, thinking quietly, then shook his head. "Oh, when I think of it all!" he cried at last, "I can't pretend any more, I am not proud of my actions. But at the time I justified it all to myself, after all that had happened to me. Sometimes, like just now, I find myself still trying to justify it. But I can't change anything, it's all in the past now.

"And then, eight years after she left, Madame Giry returned, a widow now, with a six year old daughter – Meg."

I shuddered at that name.

"She was the new ballet mistress and Meg was going to begin her training in the ballet corps. And one of the first things my old friend did after she settled in was come down to my home to visit me. But I had changed. I was a scared boy no longer. And although she had heard rumours of this ghost, she had never dreamed it would be me.

I cannot lie to you, Gustave; she was deeply disappointed in me. And despite all my arrogance towards her, I felt ashamed after she left me that day. But I never told her that, not in all these years. She did not need to bring me supplies any more – I was used to sneaking out to the market early in the morning and generally fending for myself. The ghost continued his work, making things disappear and reappear as if by magic, demanding changes to the cast now and again through notes and ventriloquism... Madame Giry feared me but she continued to help me too, against her better judgement, by warning people not to take my threats lightly. She knew more than anyone what I was capable of…

People took notice of me, although they could not see me, and I kept it that way. No-one mocked me here, without some kind of.. consequence. I carried on building my empire, never giving a thought to the people I may have hurt or scared away.

And then, after four years, your mother arrived. Ten years old and newly orphaned – I have never seen such innocence. She was everything I was not; pure, innocent, beautiful… I have already told you how I became her Angel of Music. She awakened something in me, the need to protect and comfort. My little Christine.. She was my whole world and I dedicated myself to being her invisible teacher and guide."

It took me a long time to take everything in and digest it. I just sat there and stared into the dying fire. He had gained money through demands and threats, he had scared gullible people.. and what else? My mother's influence had given me strong moral values and his confession troubled me.

I think he knew he had told me too much. He sat there, with his face in his hands again, and it was clear that he was trembling but if he needed comfort I could not offer him any. Not yet, anyway. I rose and went to bed, without kissing him, and undressed as well as I could with one hand, reluctant to ask for his help. When he looked in I pretended to be asleep, not even sure if he was fooled. I lay awake for a long time, just staring at the ceiling.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

He _was_ sorry. "I shouldn't have told you all that, Gustave, you're too young..." he kept saying. "I was a different person then. I've changed, you know I have. I never knew what it was like to be loved rather than pitied or hated until your mother loved me. And now I have you in my life… When I think of what I did in those days..."

When I look back I realise that it had started out so differently. He had demanded food in order to survive. Madame Giry had left him alone in that cellar, with no source of food or money. What could he have done? Living above ground would have been impossible. But all that money that he had demanded? I could not justify that, or the threats either. And there must be so much more he wasn't telling me….

He was truly sorry, but he had raised so many questions for me. How could he be the same person who sang to me and held me in his arms when I had a nightmare? And the ventriloquism that he used to amuse me and make my stuffed bear "talk" was the same that he once used to intimidate and frighten people.

But he _was_ the same person.

He was a contradiction, a puzzle, a mystery. All he had suffered, the hatred and the beatings and the humiliation, just because of his face. Every time I thought of the bad things he did, I also thought of that cage, or that mirror, or the people who still stared at him and called him names, here in New York, years later.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

School was my salvation at that time. It was such a relief to be away from that atmosphere of guilt and remorse for a few hours. George and I played together and talked about normal things; indeed I did not tell him many details about my father until much later, and as I've said, he still doesn't know everything. And all the things I've learnt since too! Goodness me, if it happened these days, I think a social worker would have got involved by now and I'd have been taken into care…

But there were happy times too. The new season was upon us before we even knew it, and there was plenty of work to be done. The Trio and I helped out with cleaning and preparing the rides. I was twelve now and still small for my age, but I was happy to help with repairs, painting, and any other jobs that needed to be done.

I knew how much guilt my father carried around in his heart and tried to cheer him up. Slowly we resumed our normal routine and I began to enjoy spending time with him again. Those days at the Opera House were in the past, after all, and he was a proper businessman now with a son to raise. We prepared the new brochures, flyers and posters together, getting them ready for delivery to train stations, the ferryports, subway stations and all the other places where Phantasma was advertised. He still loved me, and I still idolised him, although I did not condone everything he used to do, and still don't. Sometimes he let me attend business meetings with him, sitting by his side at the top of the table, both of us dressed in black and white; the master and his heir. Most exciting of all though, we would explore the city at night, when he felt most comfortable.

It was the autumn, or fall, of that year when that incident happened which shook me in every way.

It had been another happy summer, with rides on the Ferris wheel, the roller coaster and all my favourites, interspersed with handing out flyers to visitors in the bizarre company of the Trio and sometimes even clearing tables in the café when they were busy. There were the shows at night, with Miss Fleck flying through the air on her trapeze and Mr Squelch lifting up a wobbly pile of chairs with a remarkably cheerful assistant sitting on top of them all. And of course, Dr Gangle, spurring on the audience between acts and generally being strange.

And then there was our visit to the beach on the second anniversary. Although I was happily busy most of the time, my heart still ached for my mother, especially at night when I lay in my bed. I missed her more than anything and I treasured all my memories of her. I wished she was here to see how I was learning new things like carpentry and baseball, but of course if she hadn't died at the hands of her so-called friend, I wouldn't be living here in the first place, with a father who had been a freak show exhibit and who had pretended to be a ghost and then an angel.

One evening that fall, we were taking one of our strolls around Central Park, under cover of darkness. Lord knows, you wouldn't do that these days. In fact we probably shouldn't have been doing it then, as we found out.

We were just strolling along, my father completely at home in the darkness as usual, when we heard footsteps behind us. Startled, we turned around to see a rough looking man standing there, with a knife in his hand, and my blood ran cold. Slowly, he approached my father, and as he came nearer we could smell beer on his breath.

"Give me your wallet," he demanded harshly. My heart pounded and my throat ran dry. I glanced at Papa who looked scared for a moment, but only for a moment.

The knife was right at my father's throat now and I froze in place. _I need to get help_ I kept thinking but my legs would not work. My whole body was trembling. There was no-one around and I could not move.

"And I'll have your watch too," he rasped, his eyes fixing Papa in a cruel stare and smirking at the sight of the mask. Papa did not flinch but merely stared back, no emotion visible on his unmasked side. Slowly, he reached into his pocket...

I found the use of my legs and tried to sneak away quietly but the man heard me and grabbed hold of my arm from behind, twisting it. "No you don't, kid! You're not going anywhere!"

I screamed but he clasped a hand over my mouth. To my horror, he held his knife to my own throat. I could feel the sharp point on my skin and closed my eyes, but then several things happened at once. My assailant was grabbed from behind, forcing him to release me. Next thing, a rope appeared in the corner of my eye and then the man was screaming in pain and nursing his wrist.

"Run, Gustave!" Papa shouted at me in French, "Run to the front gate, this instant!"

I didn't need telling twice. I took off as fast as I could go and didn't stop until I reached the gate. Breathless and frightened, I looked around desperately for help. No sign of a policeman. People were hurrying to subway stations, to streetcar stops.. I leaned against the railing to catch my breath then sat in the nearest bench, my whole body shaking like a leaf. _What's happening to Papa?_ I thought desperately. Suddenly I heard my name being called and sprang to my feet.

"Papa! Oh, thank goodness!" I ran towards him, relieved and still trembling a little. So was he, I noticed. We embraced each other as tears streamed down my face and just stood there together for a while. My father, my precious father… Despite his past, he was everything to me.

"Did he take your wallet?" I asked eventually when we ended our hug. He put his arm around me and hurried me away to our stop.

"No son, he did not."

"Won't he come after us?" I asked fearfully.

"No, he will not bother us again..." he replied, and his voice wavered a little.

I looked at him in fear, but he was quick to reassure me.

"His wrist is broken. I have had a.. few words with him also. Just a pathetic lowlife. He will not touch either of us again. I was willing to hand over my wallet but believe me, Gustave, when I saw him hurt you..."

His dark, menacing tone made me shudder. The streetcar pulled up just then, and I didn't get a chance to reply. Not that I could think of anything. We sat at the back of that streetcar on our way to the station; Papa's hat was pulled down over his mask as usual and his arm stayed around my shoulders the entire journey. That rope was poking out from under his coat slightly and I tried not to look at it.

"It's all right, my dear," he told me gently, "I'm here now. No-one will ever hurt you. I promised you, remember?"

Those words echoed in my mind as I looked out the window into the night at all the people hurrying home to their normal lives.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Years have gone by since then and I have pondered over that frightening incident many times, especially in recent weeks. My father injured that mugger yet I know if it had been a few years earlier he would not have stopped at that. And it is possible that he wanted to do worse that very night; after all, he was more than capable of it. But he didn't, because I know he could not have looked me in the eye if he had. He had a choice and chose to spare a life. And for me, that's all that really matters in the end.

But now I know how he managed to escape his evil master, without the man ever pursuing him or trying to find him. He never told me, but I still know. The truth just crept up on me gradually, I guess, although I tried to deny it. And it bothers me. No reasonable person would have expected Papa to stay in captivity if there was any way of escaping, but still…

"_No-one will ever hurt you. I promised you, remember?_ "

It's possible that without Papa's intervention, I would not be here today. Or perhaps I would have lost another parent, who knows? It was a long time ago. But at that time, it was not as easy to dismiss my fears and doubts as I grew from childhood to youth in Coney Island.

**I really thought long and hard about this chapter and whether Erik/Mister Y should be a murderer or not. This felt like the best compromise, so hopefully people will be happy with it. Erik is still dark, but he has changed too. Please leave a review, all opinions are welcome!**


	16. Putting Away Childish Things

**Sorry for the delay with this chapter! Things are moving on a bit now. Please review!**

Yesterday Helen and I drove over to Coney Island, something we do not do very often nowadays. We strolled along the beach, lingering in front of the vacant site where Phantasma once stood, and we gazed wistfully at the former ballroom we used to frequent in our courting days. Now it's part of a block of fairly bland looking apartments, like so many other former attractions in the neighbourhood.

"So sad to see all these changes, and none for the better," I mused aloud sadly. We reminisced about the old days and the fun we had, as a young couple sprinted past us, the young lady shrieking playfully as her beau caught her around the waist and pulled her into a passionate embrace. I winced at their extended public display of affection but Helen was quick to interject.

"We used to do that, don't you remember?" she reminded me.

"Bet we still could," I retorted and my tone made her chuckle, dispelling my cynicism. And I did chase her although we both got out of breath after a ridiculously short space of time.

As we made our way back to the car, I looked back at the sea, and remembered …. Helen slipped her arm through mine with wordless understanding, the kind that only comes after a marriage of over four decades. And as we passed that vacant field of concrete on our way to the parking lot, I paused briefly and when I closed my eyes I could still hear the laughter of children, the rush of the roller coaster, the Coney Island Waltz and Dr Gangle luring curious visitors into the theatre…

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

We were on the beach by the water's edge once more and I gazed sorrowfully out to sea as I stood there, self-conscious of my father's arm around my shoulders.

"Four years," he muttered sadly, "I can't believe it's been four years."

"Neither can I." I replied softly, trying not to break his reverie. But the night was unseasonably cold and I kept wondering when we could go back inside.

"But, that means I've had you to live with me for four years and I can't complain about that," he grinned; at least I think it was a grin, behind that mask.

He was as mysterious as ever, with his black cloak and gloves, and his fedora hat. He continued to intrigue me but he was more comfortable leaving his mask off when we were alone, which pleased me. I was used to that face by now, strange as it may seem. A person can get used to pretty much anything.

It had not been an easy two years, at least not all the time. Papa was irritable and bad tempered sometimes and I supposed that would never change. Luckily I was able to pacify him with music or with passages from his favourite books, and we got along well most of the time. But some things were changing, for me at least. I was fourteen now, and growing taller at last. And there were other things happening to me to, to my body and my emotions; I was beginning to realise how strongly I could feel things such as love – and hate.

He always insisted on visiting that spot on the same day each year, without fail. And although I continued to miss my mother, I found myself wanting to mourn her in my own way – in the privacy of my room perhaps, not in the place where she had been taken from me. I was a teenager, although the word had not been invented yet, and although I loved my father sometimes I just wanted to be alone, or with my friends.

Lord knows, I've had the experience of two teenagers and it was not always easy, but that was different; my wife and I raised them together and we could always ask the advice of other parents. Papa was alone with me. I'd been thrust into his self-sufficient world as a grieving boy and although it was difficult, he could make me happy with songs and stories. But now I was growing up. To make things worse he had no friends to consult with. All his employees, even Joe, were kept at a professional distance and he could hardly ask the Trio about such matters. So I have nothing but sympathy for him as he tried to raise a sometimes difficult adolescent.

"Why does he do that?" I asked Miss Fleck later that evening. It was so good to visit the caravans of my slightly odd friends and talk to them, away from my father. But Miss Fleck was the best of all, for she always made me a delicious hot chocolate with marshmallows and usually had a bag of candy lying around too, or some other treat.

"I mean, why does he make me do that, every year? There's hardly a day goes by that I don't think of my mother, why do we have to visit the spot where she died? And he's always embarrassing me in public. Putting his arm around me, trying to hold my hand when we cross the street – I'm fourteen for heaven's sake! And he called me "darling" in front of a group of boys my own age the other day; they were laughing their heads off!"

Miss Fleck just smiled benignly at me in that curious way.

"He loves you very much, Gustave. Remember, he had no-one for so many years. I remember visiting him in the Aerie in the years before you came and he would be mourning over your mother, composing beautiful songs about her. You're all he has left of her; of course he's going to fuss over you."

I thought about this for a while and felt guilty. Miss Fleck could always bring me down to earth whenever I started ranting or complaining like that, without ever condemning or chastising me. And poor Papa, yes, she was right of course. Sometimes when I passed by his bedroom door at night I could hear him crying himself to sleep over my mother. He couldn't be like other fathers, not after the life he'd had. Embarrassing as he was, I did love him. And so I went home and told him that and allowed him to embrace me.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The final show of the season took place the following night and Papa attended in his private box as usual. This year, I was taking part in the show, playing the piano. I accompanied the singers, played something suitably tense for Mr Squelch's act and performed a short piece for the start and end of Miss Fleck's trapeze act which I had composed myself.

"Thank you so much for that tune, Gustave, it was just perfect! I can't believe you wrote it just for this act," she told me enthusiastically as she returned from taking her bow. She kissed my cheek and I felt myself redden a little.

"You're welcome, Miss Fleck, pity my back was turned the whole time, but I'm sure you were great!"

She _was_ great. Her small size enhanced her act and she always made it look so effortless. Everyone loved her.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

All too soon the park was being closed down for the winter and I helped Joe compile the end of season accounts as well as helping to lock up the rides and all the other chores that needed to be done.

And I was starting a new school too, a private high school in Brooklyn, which I would be travelling to by train. Some boys my age were already working for a living, but my father would not hear of it. He wanted only the best for me and had investigated all the private schools in the area before settling on this one, Broadbury High School, which had an excellent music department. When I came home and told him that I'd passed the entrance exam, he was so excited and happy that he lifted me into the air and spun me around, taking me by surprise. Then we'd gone straight down to Mario's for a celebratory ice cream. And even in that happy moment, although neither of us mentioned it, we both knew that there was one person missing from this occasion.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

George was going to a different school but as we lived nearby we continued to spend time together, either on the beach or in Phantasma. Papa was giving me a small allowance by now and sometimes my friend and I even visited the rival parks, just to try them out, and discreetly keep an eye on what they were doing. By this point, George had a fairly noisy, fractious baby sister called Amy, so he liked spending time away from his house and sometimes even stayed over at my house. He jokes now about how he was so desperate to get away from a crying baby that he slept in the house of a masked oddball.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I'd long since given up the church choir. I just didn't have time any more, with school and Phantasma. At least that was what I told myself. But deep down I felt there was no point to it, when Papa never came to hear me sing. Mr Fraser, the choirmaster, was disappointed but we both knew I hadn't been singing at my best. My voice was breaking so perhaps it was the right decision, but I remember thinking how lucky the other boys were, with their parents in the congregation.

He still didn't come to church and that troubled me. I was usually able to get myself out of bed on time on a Sunday these days so he didn't even need to call me any more. I just slipped out of the house. Thankfully I had Father Donovan to talk to about spiritual matters. Finding that he shared my concern about Papa we prayed together and hoped that he would change his mind one day.

I had to ask him about it.

"Papa, why do you not go to church?"

He paused before answering.

"How can I go into a church and praise the god who made me like this?" he replied darkly, indicating his face.

"But he's given you so much, all your talent and knowledge-"

"I gave those to myself, through hard work and perseverance, when I realised he had abandoned me."

There seemed to be no arguing with him.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

School was fairly tough, with new subjects, several teachers instead of just one and plenty of homework, but Papa was always willing to help me. I had an excellent music teacher, Mr Grenier, who, despite his French surname was actually American by at least four generations. But I thrived under his tutelage, both in the classroom and after school. He was already talking about the possibility of a place at the Juliard School, one of the finest music colleges in the country and assured me that if I worked hard it could become a reality.

I gradually made new friends at school but the music students tended to be looked down on by the more sporty ones, and I realised that I would never be in the main "gang". Yet again I tried to play down my French accent, so that they would not have something else to tease me about.

It was good to rest at home at the weekends during the off season, and spend time with my other friends or with the Trio. I knew their real names by now but still preferred to call them by their stage names and that is how I still think of them. Being older and taller now, I no longer wanted Mr Squelch to carry me on his shoulders, although, of course, he was still more than capable of doing so.

Now that I was at high school, a lot of the conversations with my friends revolved around girls. Up until recently they had always seemed silly and annoying, but that was changing. And I was discovering new feelings and how strong they could be.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

One evening, just after my fifteenth birthday I was sitting in Miss Fleck's caravan, talking about school, music, and the upcoming season, among other things. I loved spending time here as she was always so welcoming and kind. When I first came to live with my papa, she would comfort me if I got upset about Mother and would tell me old gypsy stories as I rested my head on her shoulder. She was not conventionally beautiful, in fact she was not conventional at all, with her unusual costumes and hairstyles, but I'd learnt to see past such things. And I was not sure how old she was but she was considerably older than me. Despite that, I honestly do not think that my feelings were romantic. Even at this young age I just felt this overwhelming urge to look after her and make sure no-one hurt her again.

But lately she seemed particularly awkward and uneasy around me, and this evening was no exception. When I sat next to her, as I often did, she immediately moved further down the bench. At one point she made some reference to her sad past and I innocently put my hand over hers but she withdrew it quickly. And when I was leaving, she did not hug me like she used to. It was strange.

My mind was racing with conflicting thoughts as I made my way home that night. Things really were different. Even my relationships with others were changing.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

In the summer there were always plenty of girls around the park, on vacation with their parents. Some of them were quite pretty and George and I often wandered around on my days off trying to look nonchalant while eyeing up some of these girls, although we must have looked pathetic. We got a few dirty looks from their fathers too. I met Janet when her little sister got lost in the park and I returned the distraught child to her family. She became my first girlfriend, although it was more like a friendship, when I look back, and it broke my heart when she didn't write to me after returning home. But I met quite a few girls through Phantasma and they never failed to be impressed that I was the owner's son. In those days, my relationships - if they could be called that = were painfully innocent, probably due to the fact that I barely had a clue about girls despite my bravado. Older girls of around nineteen or twenty were a popular target for George and I as they didn't usually have their fathers with them, but they usually just rolled their eyes and laughed at us when we offered to show them around.

Now that I was starting to get to know the opposite sex a little better, I started to wonder about my parent's relationship. Mother must have loved him if they'd had me together, I reasoned. With much persuasion, Papa shared me a few more details about how he watched over my mother when she was young and listened to her fears and secrets.

"What happened when she was reunited with Raoul? Did you know he called to her dressing room on the night of her debut?"

"Of course I knew. I was watching them through one of my two way mirrors."

I shuddered.

"I was angry as you can imagine. She had never shown the slightest interest in any man before. It was I who had.. arranged for her to take the lead role and she had made me so proud that night. I truly thought that after all this time I could show myself to her and she... well, she might grow to love me. But now, with this handsome young suitor…"

He clenched his fists.

"I warned her, you see. I warned her that she must devote herself to music entirely and not allow her head to be turned by some man, and here she was, disobeying me… And so, after that young fool left her I lured her away, using my music. I brought her, in a trance, to my underground lair, taking her on my boat across the lake. I showed her my world, all my creations, my organ, everything. And then, she fainted."

"Fainted? Why?" I gasped.

"I showed her the mannequin of her that I owned. "

"You had a mannequin of her even then? "I asked incredulously.

"It was wearing a wedding dress and she fainted upon seeing it. She wasn't ready you see. But I caught her and carried her to my bed – but don't worry, I left her there to sleep."

I could not believe what I was hearing. I remembered the automaton I'd found by accident and thought of how frightened Mother must have been.

"In the morning, she came to me, while I was playing my music. But it was a trick, she pulled my mask off when I wasn't expected it… I was so angry with her. I will never forget how frightened she was. Just like you, the first time you saw my face…

"I begged for her love, but she just looked at me in pity and.. gave me back my mask. And so I brought her back above, heartbroken that she could not love me. But I continued to follow her and ensure that she always got the best parts, through a series of strongly worded notes to the two managers. Carlotta, the diva of the Opera at the time, got all the good roles and I did not approve of this."

Mother had not told me much about Carlotta but she never seemed to like her. However Papa's actions still disturbed me.

He told me other things too, things which shattered my preconceptions about Mother and Raoul's engagement on the rooftop. Raoul hadn't brought her up there just to propose to her. They'd been fleeing from _him_. Gradually he told me about his unexpected appearance at the Masquerade Ball and the encounter with Mother and Raoul in the graveyard, when she was visiting Grandfather's grave. And there always seemed to be things he was leaving out. The worst thing about all these revelations is that I only have his perspective.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

We seemed to be arguing more. Papa was determined that I should study and practise my music but there were so many other distractions at this time. And there was the little matter of his past too and his obsessive hatred of my stepfather. He told me all these terrible things yet still expected me to respect him. It was all in the past and he had changed - I had first hand experience of that- but still, it had happened. And yet.. and yet he was still my father and the thought of that just made me even more confused.

Life was good nonetheless in those pre-war years, for a young person in Coney Island. I liked going out with my friends, to Mario's perhaps, or to a party, but it was difficult when I knew how lonely Papa would be. Sometimes, against my better judgement, I would stay in, just to keep him company.

One evening, while Papa was washing the dishes in the sink, I asked him if I could go to the nickelodeon that had just opened in the area.

"Certainly not. Those places are dirty and squalid, from what I've heard, and there's usually trouble there too."

I scowled at his back.

"And you can take that look off your face too, boy," he warned me, without even turning round.

As it turned out, that particular place gained a bad reputation for itself, with fights breaking out on a regular basis. So perhaps my father was justified on that occasion. But he wasn't always.

"Please, papa, everyone in my class is going to be there-" I pleaded with him another time.

"And you won't be. You've been working hard on your music, which I commend, but you've neglected your other subjects. You need to stay in tonight and work on your history and English; there's no reason why you can't get A's in those subjects."

"Everyone else's parents have allowed them-"

"I am not "everyone else's parents"" he replied firmly, in what must be the understatement of the century.

And because I loved him I knew how to hurt him. When he demanded I come home from a party at 10p.m I was indignant, especially as I was almost sixteen at the time. But he stressed over and over how dangerous the streets were, and that I was to come through that door at 10 on the dot, or-

"Or what?" I interrupted sharply. "You'll come down there and get me, in front of everyone? Looking like that?"

In a split second, he had slapped my face and I was reeling backwards from the impact, rubbing my cheek. I don't think I ever knew what pain was until that moment. But he wasn't finished. With surprising violence, he pinned me against the wall by my shoulders and glared into my face, with those scars right up against my eyes.

"Don't – _ever_ – speak to me like that again," he snarled, in that low tone that I feared more than his temper.

He released me and I sneaked away to my bedroom, locking my door. I just lay on my bed, rubbing the red mark on my cheek and feeling sorry for myself. I remembered how Mother had comforted me after I had a nightmare about a monster chasing me. "Monsters aren't real," she had told me. Now I wasn't so sure.

Later he came to me and begged for my forgiveness. What choice did I have? He held me and told me how sorry he was, and I apologised for my own behaviour, and he was my father again, not a monster. It was such a relief to see him calm again and I would do anything to keep him that way. But it was at moments like that when I wanted my mother the most.

Once I saw him gazing out of the window into the night, "talking" to my mother.

"It's_ you_ he needs, my angel, not me. Oh, Christine, why did you have to leave us? He's growing up and I can't do anything for him, I can't do this without you…"

My heart broke.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Not long after we'd returned home from the remains of Coney Island and I'd written down all my thoughts, I remarked to Helen how difficult I must have been to live with as a teenager.

"I know I complain about the youth of today, but honestly, I wasn't much better! The things I used to say to poor Papa! It made me ashamed to think of them this evening…"

She smiles indulgently. "Well, teenagers are hard work! But, you have to admit, dear, your father wasn't the easiest person to live with either. Such an odd character."

"That's what George thinks too. And you're right, of course, but think of the life he had. It's not surprising he was so cynical and eccentric. But despite it all, he had a lot of goodness in him too, you know."

"You brought that out in him, Gus. If you ask me, you saved him."

All these memories have got me thinking about our own son, Charles, who lives in Boston now. It worries me that we don't see each other very often. I'm going to call him on the telephone tomorrow and have a long overdue conversation with him. We've had our disagreements over the years but he's still my son, just as I was my father's son.

I've also been thinking about the idea of "saving" Papa. In fact I pondered that very idea as I fell asleep last night, wondering what might have become of him if I had not entered his life.


	17. To End All Wars

**Sorry about the delay with this chapter, but it was really hard to write. Please let me know what you think!**

While Europe worried about the arms race, uneasy alliances and the threat of war, Phantasma thrived in the summer of 1913. My father and I overcame our differences for long enough to work on various projects together. The theatre was expanded, giving it a much larger stage for the circus performances and we launched a bigger, scarier version of the Haunted House. We also opened new attractions such as the Medieval Maze, where visitors encountered dragons, goblins and wizards, all created by the amazing Mister Y and his son. We may have had our differences but we both loved Phantasma.

School continued as normal and I worked hard on my music to ensure my place at Julliard. I wondered if I could pursue a career in music as well as working in Phantasma – sometimes I felt torn between the two. My old boyhood dream of writing an opera based on the Snow Queen resurfaced around this time and I worked on ideas for it whenever I got a chance.

Sometimes I still thought of France and Raoul. He wrote to me occasionally but sometimes the letters were so short they were hardly worth the price of the stamp. By this time Louis was no longer writing to me; he'd left school at fourteen and was busy helping his father on the estate now, but Raoul told me he was fine. He also told me how much the two servants, Berthe and Adele, missed me, at least in the early days, and how the estate was coming along. Not very well it would seem. Many of the tenants had left by now and the farm was failing. It seemed like a different world to be honest, and I was very busy with this one.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Papa had started to step out of the shadows a little more. He'd started a few new customs around this time following a little persuasion from me. On the first day of the season, he always gave a very inspiring speech to his workers, particularly the new staff, which looked forward to the busy but happy months ahead. And on the last day, he gave another speech, thanking everyone for their hard work. Apart from these times, it was unusual to see him on the park, and he never appeared when there were visitors around. But that just helped to bolster his mysterious image.

I used to love seeing young children arrive through the gate for the first time, looking around in fascination and soaking up all the sights, sounds and smells. They often asked their parents if they would see Mister Y today, and were always disappointed to learn that they probably wouldn't.

But the adults, especially the cynical ones, were the best entertainment for me.

"You know something?" they would scoff as they looked around, "I bet there's no such person as Mister Y. It's just some stupid publicity stunt for this place. There's probably some committee running this whole show, laughing at us. Although, it's a good crowd puller, I'll give them that."

And off they would go, to spend money on the attractions of a place they secretly enjoyed, devised by a man they thought was a fabrication.

If only they knew!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The end of the season came around very quickly that year and for the first time a ball was being held for all the Phantasma employees to mark the occasion. Miss Fleck kindly agreed to accompany me as my "date" and we even danced together a few times, much to the amusement of Dr Gangle and Mr Squelch. I felt so proud to be there with her. Papa attended, as the owner, but stayed in the background for most of the evening. I tried to encourage him to ask some of the ladies to dance but he refused.

"I don't mind if you want to start seeing someone else, you know. It's been six years since Mother died, after all. "

"Your mother was the only woman for me, Gustave," he replied sadly, and I knew he was telling the truth. It seemed so sad though. I'd had a couple of girlfriends by now, although nothing very serious, and my father was still pining for the woman he'd lost. My most recent girlfriend was now going out with someone else, the novelty of my tragic background having worn off for her after just a few weeks. It was hard, but there was always the possibility of other romances. But not for Papa.

And then there was Miss Fleck, who had been treated so badly in the past but could still show love and compassion to others, and to me. Sometimes, but only sometimes, it felt like I was in love with her and these were the times she was most awkward around me. But on this night we were friends again, just like when I was younger. That night marked the end of that summer, the last summer before the world went mad... And I can still remember the band playing the ragtime tune "Maple Leaf Rag" and all the couples dancing together as my father watched from the shadows. A moment frozen in time.

"We will always be friends, you know," Miss Fleck told me gently as I held her close and danced around the room with her.

"I know," I whispered.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

A year passed. The summer season was upon us again, after a long and difficult year of school work and more arguments with my father. And despite all that was happening in the rest of the world, Phantasma seemed a world away from it all. I loved strolling around the park alone or with the Trio, but now I liked to dress for the occasion in a black cloak and hat. As Papa still adamantly refused to allow me to wear a mask, even as a costume, Dr Gangle procured a monocle for me, similar to his own, and I wore it with pride, revelling in my strange appearance.

One day I found a small girl crying beside the Medieval Maze, her parents unable to persuade her to come with them. On asking her the matter, she told me that her older brother had told her there was a monster inside the Maze that ate little children under seven years old.

"And I'm six!" she cried.

I knelt in front of her and took her hands.

"There's no monster in there, sweetheart. Do you know how I know this? Have you heard of Mister Y, the owner?"

She nodded, sniffing.

"Well, he's my father! And we designed that Maze together, so I know everything that's inside!"

She gasped and stared at me, her mouth open.

"Mister Y is your_ papa_?"

"Indeed he is. My name is Gustave, what's yours?"

"Emily," she replied, more cheerful now.

"Well, Emily, I know it looks a bit scary, but how about I show you around it and you can see how everything works?"

She looked at her parents pleadingly.

"I'll look after her and bring her back to you," I promised them and they gave their permission.

So I showed her everything, on her own little tour and explained how all the goblins and the other creations were really not that scary after all, and how my father and I worked on them. She was much happier by the time we left to rejoin her parents and brother. The boy in question was standing there with his arms crossed, looking sulky.

"I want a tour too," he whined.

"Sorry buddy, you have to be under seven years old!"

He wasn't happy about that but Emily and I chuckled together.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

On the 29th July 1914 I strolled into Mario's ice cream parlour on my day off, glad to be away from the park for a while. I was seventeen now and often spent time alone like this.

Mario was behind the counter arguing loudly in Italian with someone I recognised as a cousin of his. He was well known for his forthright opinions. Not long after I sat down, his American born daughter, Carla, approached my table to take my order. She was only a year older than me and very pretty.

"Sounds like your father's off on his hobby horse again," I joked, nodding towards the counter.

But she shook her head sadly.

"Haven't you heard? Some Archduke or other was shot in Sarajevo and now Austria's declared war on Serbia. That's what they're arguing about, whether Italy will get involved or not. There are all these treaties, you see... I've no idea what it's all about, really, but we have lots of relatives in Italy.."

I stared at her.

"What about France? Have you heard anything?"

She shook her head again. "Sorry. But papa thinks it's going to get much bigger."

I walked out of that place in a daze, without even ordering anything and headed straight to the nearest newsstand to buy a newspaper. Papa never read them so I was often behind with the news, but for the next few days I bought a paper every morning on my way to the café or the Haunted House or wherever I was working that day, trying to understand what was happening in Europe. And sure enough, about a week later, Germany invaded France.

My heart almost stopped when I approached the Phantasma newsstand and saw that headline.

My stepfather…

Was he all right? I wondered. He hadn't written in so long and now this.. He would be about thirty eight by now; surely he wouldn't have to go back into the Navy? And what was going to happen to my homeland?

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I sat on the balcony trying to enjoy the peaceful night after another busy day, but my mind was frayed. I'd been so busy with my life here, trying to become American and now all this was happening in my old country. After a while, Papa came out to join me.

"Papa, I'm worried about Raoul."

He looked at me but I could not guess what he was thinking, even without the mask.

"There's a war going on in Europe, you know."

"Yes, I know," he sighed, "And yes, I can understand you're concerned about him. But I'm sure he has friends and relatives he can stay with, if the area is invaded."

"You're right, but it's still hard, especially when France is so far away. Aren't you worried about your country?"

"I told you before, son, I have no country. Politics and the petty squabbles of the world have never concerned me."

"This is going to be a lot more than a petty squabble. Lots of countries are getting involved now."

He didn't say anything but I knew he was thinking quietly. Perhaps he would finally start to take an interest in the wider world. Phantasma and music seemed to be his entire life.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Although America was neutral in those early years of the war, it still affected us in Phantasma. Many employees were citizens of European countries and wanted to go and fight for their respective countries. Some second generation Americans spoke of this too. It was a huge topic of conversation as fall passed and people began to realise that the war would not be over by Christmas after all.

With all this talk of Europe I felt something I hadn't felt up to now – the urge to return to France to visit Raoul. The news of constant battles and the desecration of my native land worried me, but the war made it difficult to travel. It was awkward having such a large German community in Coney Island where everyone knew I was French and there were a few disagreements at school too among some of the boys. There was talk of joining foreign regiments although only a few of us were eighteen.

I even considered joining the French army but knew that Papa would never allow it. And besides, what if I was killed? He'd already lost my mother. I knew I could not put him through such grief.

Other priorities took over, like school and studying. My place in Julliard was confirmed that spring after a difficult audition process and I graduated top of my class in the summer of 1915. There was no prouder parent there than my father who made one of his rare outings into a public place in broad daylight. He even allowed me to introduce him to some of my teachers, such as Mr Grenier who had helped me so much. And I let him embrace me, even in front of several boys from my class.

"Your mother would be so proud of you today, Gustave," he told me softly as our hug ended. Seeing my sad expression, he put his hands on my shoulders. "But I have more than enough pride for the two of us," he assured me gently, and I hugged him again. Here he was, my father, the man who had looked after me, played with me and entertained me through those sad, dark days of grief. He had supported me, paid for a private education and taught me all he knew. He _had_ changed. His past actions still troubled me but his selfless love for me almost made up for it.

With a pang of remorse and a little more wisdom, I left my school years behind me.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

That summer I knew I would have to start supporting myself to some extent. A music education did not come cheap, even for the owner of a popular amusement park with an impressive portfolio of stocks and shares. Besides, I wanted a little independence. So I found a part-time job in a Manhattan store that sold sheet music and musical instruments, as well as working a few shifts in Mario's. And sometimes I still helped my father, although my time was inevitably more limited now.

The terrible news from Europe continued to worry me and it was not helped by the fact that Raoul wrote to me to tell me that Louis had joined the army, like many boys from the village and the surrounding area. The letter took several weeks to arrive. He himself was fine, but civilian travel between the two continents was nearly impossible, especially since the sinking of the Lusitania.

It irritated me that Papa did not take my concerns for Raoul seriously. He refused to allow me to travel to France, which was understandable, but he did not want to talk about him. It was as if my stepfather was in the past now and should be forgotten about. But he wasn't arrogant about it, in fact he seemed very flustered and embarrassed when I talked about the possibility of seeing Raoul again when the war was over.

"Look, I know he loved Mother at the same time as you, and you weren't fond of him, but honestly, it was years ago! Mother's dead, why does it bother you when I talk about him?"

It was evening and I had been working all day. I was tired and irritable, and perhaps that was why I spoke the way I did. But Papa seemed to be too distracted to notice.

"There's something you don't know, Gustave. Something that happened in the Opera House or rather, below it..."

"You mean something else?"

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. My heart lurched when I saw him do that as it meant there was a revelation coming, something I should know but didn't want to hear.

"Perhaps it's best that you know. It's been troubling me for so long now, ever since you came to live with me really, but you were too young then…I've told you about my past before, about your mother's time at the Opera House. You know how angry and hateful I was back then. I hated that vicomte, with every fibre of my being. I hated that he could court her properly, taking her out to dinner, all that kind of thing. So I planned to win her away from him."

I closed my eyes, trembling at his words. I didn't want to hear this, I didn't need to hear this, but he kept going. He told me everything then. How he had worked on his dark, terrible opera, Don Juan Triumphant, for months, hiding himself away. How he had planned for Christine to take the leading role and how he had stolen her away the night it was performed, and how she had confronted him about his actions at last while he made her put on the wedding dress from the mannequin.

"I wanted her to choose, once and for all. And either way, I wanted the vicomte gone from our lives. He came after her, just as I had hoped. And I told her to choose – stay with me forever or her suitor would…"

He stopped and looked at me with tears in his eyes. "You remember the thief in Central Park? You remember the rope?"

Something was niggling at me, at the back of my mind. I did indeed remember the thief in Central Park, and the rope... But there was something else, something from long ago, a dream perhaps…

"I told her to choose. She was so angry with me, so full of hatred and contempt. I can never forget those words, never…Her suitor pleaded with me to let her go, even with the rope around his neck… She looked to _him, _to the man she was going to marry, and to me.. And then it happened..."

A shiver ran down my spine.

"She came over to me, filled with a strength I never knew she had. She..she he spoke to me with compassion and gentleness. And.. and she kissed me! A real kiss, on the lips! I, a monster, living in darkness, was kissed by a pure angel, and she did not die! Then.. oh Gustave, she embraced me, she actually held me in her arms and... and kissed me again! My own mother would not kiss me, and _she_ did! My Christine did…"

He was crying now and I put my arm around his shoulders, my fear dissipating.

"Papa it's all right, you don't have to tell me any more, truly you don't.."

"After all I did to her.. She showed me more love than I had ever known in those few moments... "

He dried his eyes and sat up straight, trembling at the memory. I leaned against his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

"It was at that moment that I knew I could not end the vicomte's life. I cut the rope. I...let him go. I let them both go. But before she left, my angel came to me and returned the ring I had given her. Then she kissed my hand and looked at me.. and I knew. We both knew, but she had to go with him. I thought he would give her a better life, you see.."

I did not know what to say.

"Oh, Gustave, I've always known that you would have to hear this one day," he sighed.

"You let them go. You spared his life.." I pondered aloud. But something was still bothering me.

"But you are my father?" I asked tentatively. For a brief, terrifying moment I wondered if he had forced her…

"Yes, indeed I am. You see, your mother came and found me."

He explained about the mob coming to kill him, and how he was rescued by Madame Giry and Meg, of all people and how they had smuggled him out of the Opera House into a brougham and made their way to an inn outside Paris on the road towards Calais. Mother had found him. She'd made enquiries from the cab drivers outside the Opera House, apparently offering a handsome tip, and she had gone to him.

On the night before her wedding.

"No, that can't be true. Mother would never have done that,"

"She did, Gustave. I know it's hard to believe. But she did seek me out, and we.. spent the night together. You're living proof of that,"

I could not believe this. I knew already that she must have slept with Papa of course, that was not a surprise or a shock, but not like this, not the night before she dedicated herself to Raoul, before God… Mother may not have been happy with Raoul but she was a good, devout woman who never missed church and went to confession regularly. She'd taught me my prayers and sometimes read aloud from the bible. How could she have slept with another man the night before her wedding? She had kept that secret for over ten years, kept it to herself, allowing it to eat her up inside...

"But you left her the next morning," I protested weakly. The atmosphere was tense beyond endurance. Both of us needed a strong cup of tea after all this and my father rested from his lengthy confession while I pondered everything. Eventually he continued.

"I was ashamed of what I was, a disfigured monster. We'd slept together in the darkness and I was too ashamed to let her see me in the morning. If only I'd known! That fool was supposed to look after her, give her a good life.. It infuriates me to think of how he treated her. But I loved her, all those years I loved her. Even when Phantasma became successful I still dreamt of having my angel back with me."

"That was why you invited her to sing, wasn't it? You wanted to steal her from her husband."

"I'm not proud of what I did. But I just couldn't live without her any more. So I invited her to sing in my theatre, sending her my song that I wrote just for her. I didn't know your stepfather had gambled away all your money in Monte Carlo, although I learnt about it soon afterwards. But it seems you got my letter at just the right time. And you all came to Mister Y's empire and.. well, you know most of what happened after that. I was watching through a two way mirror when the three of you arrived in your hotel room, and I saw the vicomte storm out and your mother comfort you. I knew then he wasn't good enough for my Christine. I wanted more than ever to win her back, come what may…"

It was all too much for me. I did not want to hear any more. I locked myself in my bedroom and did not come out for several days. Papa told everyone that I was sick and didn't want any visitors, and got Joe to telephone the store where I worked. I lay on my bed, thinking, wondering, going over that confrontation in the lair over and over. And finally I worked out what had been bothering me. That dream Raoul once had, when I stood outside his bedroom door wanting my mother. He'd been dreaming of being strangled. He'd been dreaming of what my father did to him.

It was a long time before I could gather all my thoughts together. Papa had tried to kill Raoul and it had continued to haunt my stepfather years later. And he had raised the child of his would-be murderer. That was why he had been so distant towards me, treating me like a stranger, looking at me in fear when I played the piano.

It was because I reminded him of the man who had taken over his fiancé's life, who terrorised them both and tried to kill him, and he had lived with that reminder every day of his life for ten years. And that same person had been _watching_ us through a mirror in the hotel room, just like he used to watch Mother at the Opera House, as he plotted… What kind of man was I living with?

And Mother... She had seemed like an angel to me, a living angel… I must have known, deep down, that I was conceived around her wedding day but I had never faced reality until now. All the stories she had told me about her life… I did not know what to think or how to feel. There were no easy answers for either of us. I returned to work but the two of us began to avoid each other and I often spent time at a concert or even in a nickelodeon, just to get away from him.

One night I did something I didn't usually do and went to a seedy bar on the promenade in Coney Island. When the barman realised who I was he told me that my stepfather had drunk here too, the night before my mother died. I remembered him coming to find me at the theatre the next morning, dishevelled, hungover and frightened. Something had happened to him the night before, something to do with my father, I knew that… More questions, more secrets…As he knew my age, the bartender would not serve me but I soon found a bar that would. And that night, I'm ashamed to say, I got completely drunk for the first time.

When I finally staggered home, I realised I'd forgotten my key and had to ring the doorbell. Papa was so furious with me that night, telling me I was just like the vicomte. I don't remember much else.

We didn't stay at odds forever. Neither of us behaved well over the whole business, but we finally (and reluctantly) began talking to each other again, determined not to speak of the past any more. Later that fall, I began my studies at Julliard, taking the train to the college's new home on Morningside Heights each day and returning to my father in the evening. We still shared a love of music and it brought us together, just when we both thought that our rift could not be bridged. Gradually I remembered what I loved about him, and thought sadly of his tears at receiving such a simple thing as a kiss. It was Mother who'd showed him the first scrap of affection he'd ever had. Even as she lay dying, she had put my hand into his, begging him to look after me. She'd managed to forgive him for all he did to her, and so must I, for her sake. And he had made continuous sacrifices for me – not just moving out of his apartment but learning about raising a child through hard experience and going out in public with me when all his instincts made him want to hide in the shadows.

It is no wonder our relationship was, and remained, decidedly complex. _Who is he?_ I used to wonder. More importantly, _what_ was he? An angel or a demon? My loving father or my oppressor? Even now, despite all the time I've had to ponder this, I have never really figured that out.

**The next chapter will move things on a little bit...**


	18. Homecoming

**I really have to apologise for the length of this chapter. There's a lot happening and I wanted to fit it all into one chapter. Hopefully it all works out and you don't get bored towards the end, but I am open to suggestions as usual. Please review, and thank you to my regular reviewers!**

In May of 1919 I stood on the deck of the gleaming ship as it pulled out from the New York docks. It sailed smoothly out of the channel and I looked back at the waving crowd despite knowing that my father was not among them. After almost twelve years in America I was going back to France.

Seeing the Statue of Liberty brought back sad memories of how Mother and I had stood on the deck of another ship together, looking forward to our trip with excitement and trepidation. Little did I know that the city we were arriving in would become my home or that Raoul would leave here alone…

I was travelling second class this time, which was perfectly comfortable, and my fellow passengers were friendly but not obtrusive. The ship was not full; in fact many people would have been travelling in the other direction at this time, mostly on a one-way trip. Even in Coney Island, there was already a trickle of newcomers, more "huddled masses" trying to escape war-ravaged Europe. But this trip had been on my heart for some time, probably since the start of the war. It was time to go back to my homeland for a little while and lay a few ghosts to rest.

During the voyage I entertained myself with reading, as usual. Instead of Jules Verne I now had another science fiction writer, H.G Wells, to help pass the time. And when I was feeling philosophical I remembered the last voyage when I was just a boy and not the college graduate I now was. My time at Julliard had involved a lot of hard work but it had all been worth it when I stood on that podium in my cap and gown, looking down on my father in the audience. And although half his face was covered as usual, I knew he was proud of me.

Several things happened in 1918 and not just my graduation. The war finally ended. I was accepted to study for a Masters degree. Papa made me a partner in Phantasma which was a great honour although I had to devote a lot of time to my studies now. And after a lot of thought and deliberation, I finally broke my final tie with the de Chagny family and became Gustave Durand.

"You don't have to take my last name, you know. Even I don't use it very much," Papa reassured me, but I wanted more than anything to have my father's name and identity.

He must have known deep down that I would still want to take this trip. I knew he was reluctant to give me his blessing, but he did in the end. "It's only right that you want to go back, I suppose", he mused, "You never got to say goodbye properly to your old life."

Arriving into Cherbourg was disorientating at first. I was carrying out that last journey in reverse and everything was so different now, including my name. Customs seemed to take a long time but I did not feel like I was in a hurry. I was home...

It was still fairly early when I boarded the train for Paris and it was then that I realised how different things really were. The ravaged countryside shocked me, and I tried not to look out at it. Deserted farmhouses, derelict villages, bomb craters… I felt like I was looking at another country.

Things got worse in Paris when I walked out of St Lazaire station into a city I didn't know any more. There were more beggars than I remembered and several young war veterans hobbling around on crutches or being pushed in wheelchairs. Everyone looked tired and shabby. Even the buildings looked old now, and I could clearly see the aftermath of the heavy shelling and air raids the city had endured during the war. There were boarded up shops, pock marked walls and still a few piles of rubble, even now.

After checking into a small hotel, I tried to retrace our steps – Mother's and mine – but the locations of her favourite stores eluded me. Were they still open, I wondered. I managed to find Montclares, the toyshop that she used to bring me to, but realised that I no longer remembered any of the staff. Even if I had, would they have remembered me?

I eventually found the café that we used to go to, and had a cream éclair for old times' sake, accompanied by a cup of coffee. But the waitresses looked too young to have worked there in former times and what could I have said to them anyway? They just looked tired and sad and probably didn't care that a former opera singer and her child once frequented this place; God knows what they had suffered over the last few years.

I paid and left. Stopping by a fruit and vegetable stall in the market, I bought a few apples and distributed them to some of the homeless people that I met, just as Mother would have done. At this point I plucked up the courage to talk the stallholder but he didn't remember Mother or me. An older woman on a neighbouring stall remembered us vaguely and sympathised with me over my mother's death. But everyone had different priorities now and what was one more death in this city? Exhausted and confused, I was glad to return to my hotel that night after walking around the city that I used to love.

After making enquiries with the elderly concierge the next morning, I was glad to learn that there was now a bus service to Grouville, my old village. The bad news was that it did not leave for another hour and a half so I spent that time in the foyer of the hotel, reading a newspaper and trying to catch up on the news, especially the progress of the Paris Peace conference.

The road out to Grouville was reassuringly familiar and the village itself had not changed much, with the bakery, the grocers' where our cook used to shop, the inn… I just stood there for a while, trying to take everything in. There was the village square, and the school, and I could see St Martins' off in the distance... It was a Saturday and there were plenty of people about, shopping or chatting, but the mood was sombre and there was a noticeable lack of young people.

Turning around suddenly to head towards the chateau, I bumped into an old man who was just coming out of the grocers and I apologised hastily.

"No damage done, lad, are you looking for anywhere in -"

He stopped in mid sentence and stared at me.

"No, it can't be.. It's not, is it?"

"Sorry, do we know each other?"

"I can't believe it, it's Master Gustave! After all these years!"

Then I recognised him. It was Antoine, our gardener and Louis' father.

"Antoine! It's so good to see you. I can't believe it either! And it's just "Gustave" now, by the way."

We shook hands warmly and it turned out we were both going to the same place so we walked along together. He kept saying how he couldn't believe I was "home" at last and what a coincidence it was that we'd met at that very moment.

"Your father- I mean, the vicomte, usually lives in Paris now. He bought an apartment in Auteuil a few years ago and he's been living there ever since the end of the war. I'm sure you'd like to visit him, but I know my wife would be glad to see you and it would mean your trip out here wasn't wasted. Will you join us for some lunch?"

I agreed and we discussed the weather and other trivial subjects until we arrived at the front gates.

Antoine pushed it open and I stepped inside for the first time in over a decade. That last carriage ride down the drive was going around in my mind, the day we left for America thinking all our problems would be solved. And now here I was back again.

There is was, in front of me at last - the beautiful, imposing chateau of the de Chagny family and my home for ten years. I had to rub my eyes. How many times had I dreamt of entering those gates again? How often had I dreamt, both at night and in my waking hours, after an argument with Papa, or a long silent day, of running across that lawn and bursting in through that front door, hoping, wishing that all would be just as I'd left it… And the dream where entry was barred to me, where I was forced to watch Mother through the window yet never join her...

I could feel tears sting my eyes and berated myself silently, as Antoine led me through the front door of his little cottage. As I stepped over the threshold I realised that I had never entered this house before. Louis and I used to meet somewhere in the grounds, or he might call to the back door of the chateau, never the front door. On a wintry day, the cook would bring him inside to wait for me by the warm hob. That was all he ever saw of the inside of my home and I had never really thought of these things until now.

"Look who I met in the village, my dear!" Antoine announced proudly.

His wife Jeanne was making soup when we entered but soon left the stove when she realised who I was and gave me a warm welcome, agreeing that I should stay for lunch. Amid the happiness of this reunion there seemed to be something wrong and I looked around me, hardly daring to ask. And yet I had to. I waited until the euphoria had died down and we were sitting around the table in front of steaming bowls of soup before trying to voice the question that was on the tip of my tongue.

"Louis..." I whispered. It was neither a question nor a statement, just a word.

Immediately I regretted saying it, but could not take it back.

My hosts looked at each other, then Jeanne bowed her head and Antoine slowly lowered his spoon back into his bowl, and I realised how white his hair was and how worn out he looked. Both of them did.

"Louis was killed at Verdun three years ago," Antoine told me softly, his voice wavering.

I was glad I was sitting down.

They went on to tell me of how the fort he had been stationed in underwent heavy shellfire, how he had died along with most of his platoon, the day the telegram came… It was all details, part of a war I had not experienced and could not imagine.

I drank as much of my soup as I could but there was a lump in my throat, and I could not think straight. My mind was not in this house any more.

"_Gustave, want to play hide and seek? I'll hide – I know a great hiding place, you'll never find me!"_

"_Race you to the oak tree – last one there's a rotten egg!"_

"_I have to go in for my dinner now, Gustave, can we finish this game tomorrow?"_

I snapped myself out of my reverie to try and comfort those who were grieving more that I was, the two people who had known Louis for every day of his life.

When the lunch things were cleared away, Jeanne showed me the little bible that her son had brought with him to the Front. She also retrieved the toy soldier I had bought him in Phantasma, thinking I was on vacation and could give it to him myself. She wound it up and put in on the table – to my delight it still worked!

"He loved that, you know. He used to demonstrate it to everyone, didn't he dear?"

"Yes, he was happy to receive it although he missed you a lot," Antoine replied.

"He used to talk about you all the time when you were younger, didn't he dear?" his wife continued, "He'd come in for his dinner in the evenings and he'd be chatting away about everything the two of you got up to, it was all "Gustave this" and "Gustave that". He was so proud to have you as a friend. He did miss you, like my husband said, but he tried to get on with the boys in the village. He always found it hard to make friends, poor thing. Not like the girls."

I vaguely remembered Louis' two older sisters. They were always teasing their brother so we usually kept out of their way. Jeanne told me that they were married now and both of them were happy and living relatively near to their parents. Their husbands were farmers and exempt from military service, which had been a great relief to everyone.

But there was another piece of bad news for Antoine and his wife to share, and I had guessed it already when I heard no familiar bark and no friendly tongue licking my hand.

"Alfie died in the winter of 1914. He was old and died peacefully, in his sleep. I think his heart just gave up. He didn't suffer." Jeanne told me gently.

I closed my eyes. My other dear friend… And both of them just as fondly remembered, even now.

"Thank you for looking after him. Especially after I... stayed on unexpectedly," I said to them after a long pause.

"It was no trouble at all, he was a good dog and we all adored him, especially Louis."

I sat there thinking. I thought of Alfie of course but I also thought of how Louis had returned to this tiny, sparsely furnished cottage each night and wondered if he'd sat at the table and jabbered away about my latest toy, or the café I'd visited in Paris, or the delicious food at the birthday party I'd attended the day before, all the things I used to cheerfully tell him about during our time together.

Later, Antoine brought me across the sweeping lawn that contained so many memories and patiently waited as I stood under the oak tree where Mother and I used to have picnics in the summer. Finally we were standing in front of the house.

"I have a key if you'd like to look inside," he told me.

I wasn't sure how to reply and instead excused myself while I walked around the outside of my old home, peeping into windows at furniture covered in dust sheets and looking for – what? Looking back I'm not sure – did I expect Mother to suddenly walk around the corner? Here was the window I had beaten on in my dream; there was the armchair that Mother sat in. Only..only she wasn't there and as I peered through at the dusty, abandoned room I knew she never would be again.

Sadness gripped my heart as I realised the truth. Everything that once made this place a home was gone now. It was a building, nothing else, a building that did not belong to me. And what of my old bedroom, the beloved room that I once wanted to return to so badly in those early days of grief? Even if all my toys and books were still there, they were a child's possessions, not a man's. Louis, Alfie, Mother most of all... they were no more. I was twenty two years of age and if I entered that house I would be looking at it with a man's eyes; I was an innocent child no longer. I had eaten the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge and knew the secrets that had been kept from me, all the years I had lived here.

As I returned to the front of the house, something occurred to me as I looked through one particular window.

"Antoine, where's the piano? Do you know if it was moved to another room?" I asked nervously.

"As far as I know, it was sold, Gustave. To the du Laurents if my memory serves me correctly."

Childish anger rose within me as I thought of that horrible Madame du Laurent and her equally horrible son, a year or two younger than me, probably banging out some discordant din on my beloved piano…

But I quelled it as I looked around the grounds I once loved, at the flower beds and the forest, as dark and mysterious as ever. We strolled into the walled garden, my old hiding place where I could read and imagine myself far away, with Alfie sitting at my feet or chasing fruitlessly after an insect. Parts of it were overgrown now, with a few colourful flowers peeping up bravely.

"I try to keep in in good order, but it's hard, you understand, with my arthritis, and now I don't even have Louis to help… There were two other lads helping me but they went off to the war as well. One got another job after he was demobbed, the other's too badly injured to work here anymore. I'm hoping his younger brother will come to work here when he leaves school this summer…"

"It's fine, Antoine, I'm sure you're doing the best you can." I reassured him.

"Would you like to go inside the house?" he asked me again.

This time I knew the answer.

"No thank you, Antoine, I've seen all I want to see."

Just like in my dream, I would have to be content with looking through the window. I knew I would never enter that house again.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Having thanked my gracious hosts and obtained Raoul's new address, I took my leave and departed the village on the Paris bus, which arrived on time, much to the astonishment of the other passengers. For the entire journey my head was full of conflicting thoughts and I knew I would have to write about this trip as soon as possible, in order to remember it. But the hardest part of my trip was still ahead of me.

The neighbourhood Raoul lived in was part of the affluent and comfortable Paris Ouest district, and I found it relatively easily. Again and again I wondered if I was doing the right thing but I'd travelled so far and couldn't just return to America yet. I had to visit him. He was not my father but I could not simply reject him. Not after everything I now knew.

The door was answered by an elderly maid who showed me inside while eyeing me up suspiciously, probably doubtful that I was her employer's stepson.

When I entered the room where he was sitting, he looked up from his newspaper and my heart jolted in my chest.

He was _old_. He could not be more than forty-four years old yet his hair was almost completely grey and there were deep lines around his eyes and mouth. He looked haggard and tired, with no traces of that "handsome young man in the Opera box".

"Gustave! I didn't think you'd actually come!" His tone was restrained and quiet, rather than surprised.

"Of course I was going to come, I promised! I had to..."

He got up and shook my hand, never taking his eyes off me. We stood there for several moments, just looking at each other, remembering the last time we'd met… Eventually when the silence became overwhelming he invited me to sit, making some comment about how well I was looking. I did not return the compliment.

The conversation was fairly banal at first. We spoke about the voyage, the weather, the neighbourhood he was living in.. It was like talking to a visitor in Phantasma: "Where are from? Oh, that must a nice place to live. You've travelled a long way, haven't you?" Eventually I told him about visiting the chateau and having lunch with Antoine and Jeanne.

"Louis was killed in the war, I expect they told you that," he said softly.

"Yes and about Alfie too, it's all..very sad. Such a terrible war." And such a platitude, coming from someone who spent it all in either a music conservatory or in an amusement park. I looked around me at the small but pleasant apartment, recognising some of the furniture from the chateau.

"Mother died of Spanish flu last September," he stated quietly, with a hint of sadness.

"I'm so sorry to hear that. It sounds like it was a terrible epidemic. She must have been in her seventies, though, I'm not quite sure..?"

"Yes, she was seventy three and she was bitter and hateful to the end. I wanted to write to you and tell you before this but the mail was so unreliable during the war, as you know."

I shook my head, still unable to understand how Grandmother could never accept Mother. And now I would never know. So many questions would remain unanswered.

Sylvie and Francois were fine, he told me, as were Gabrielle and Robert who were still living in England, their three daughters married with families by now. But my "cousin" Richard had been at the Front as an army officer and had been permanently blinded in an explosion. I thought of our long-ago fight and felt a twinge of guilt. I felt no desire to visit him but I could not gloat over his sad fate. Raoul told me the long litany of deaths and injuries among the boys of the parish and others who I had once known. Spanish flu had claimed many victims in addition to Grandmother, including Berthe, our cook who had stayed with us after our disaster. It was hard to listen to it all, knowing I had been so cossetted in America. And to think I once wanted to fight for this country and possible get myself killed or mutilated….

"You only changed your name last year? I would have thought he would change it straight away." Raoul remarked, trying to change the subject.

"No, he waited and let me choose. It felt like the right thing to do. But I wasn't sure if you were happy with the idea, I wrote and told you but you never wrote back."

He shrugged. "I don't know why you needed my blessing." His voice was matter-of-fact rather than bitter and I rubbed the back of my neck nervously before continuing.

"I just wanted to tell you... I hope you didn't mind…"

"Nothing to do with me any more. It's only right you should have your father's name… But, tell me, what was he like as a father? Did he.. treat you well?"

"His name is Erik, and yes... he was kind to me. He still is. I'm still living with him and always will. He was just wonderful when I was grieving over Mother; he knew just how to cheer me up, with his music and stories. The things he taught me… He's a genius, truly he is. He did everything that a father should do."

That last remark slipped out by accident but he did not seem to be hurt or surprised by it. "That is good to know. You always sounded happy in your letters, but I wondered sometimes… Even on the ship coming home I worried.."

"You did? But you left me there! You said it was for the best."

"I know. Don't you see? It _was_ for the best. Gustave, I-I could never give Christine what she wanted when she was alive. The least I could do for her was honour her dying wish. Anyway, I couldn't be a father to you, we both know that. He knows you better than I ever did, because you are a part of him."

The clock ticked and we sat there looking at the carpet.

"I loved you, you know that?" I asked him eventually.

He looked up, and I continued, gently, softly.

"I loved you and wanted to share my interests with you but you couldn't. You were afraid. I realise that now. I understand and that's what I wanted to tell you. Papa has told me everything."

"You mean-"

"Everything that happened at the Opera House, before I was born. The real story. I know what he did to you and Mother and how he let you both go. You had nightmares about that night, didn't you? And you had to look at me every day, mocking you without even knowing it. I know and I'm sorry. I'm sorry it all happened and I want you to know I don't hate you for it. I just wish I'd known before, but it would have scared me. It still does, if I'm honest. Sometimes Papa scares me, with his anger and his darkness-"

"And yet you still live with him?"

"He has no-one else, Raoul." I stopped when I realised what I'd called him. "And he is so different now, despite everything. He would never do those things again, I know that. He has me now and I love him, even without his mask."

"I did wonder if he would tell you," was all he said but I could not read his expression or his tone.

We both sat quietly for a while, just staring into space or studying the pattern on the carpet. The maid brought tea which we hardly touched and the clock ticked, a branch tapped against the window and a dog barked at a distance.

"When are you going back?" he asked after an interminable silence.

"In a few days. I was hoping to visit Mother's grave. Perhaps you would come with me?"

"If-if you would like me to, yes, I will…"

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

Graveyards always seem to be cold but this particular one was windy too and we shivered as we made our way over to the Daae family tomb. I shivered even more as I thought of Papa hiding here, waiting for Mother to try and win her back... Inexplicably I glanced around me, almost expecting to see him emerge from behind a tombstone, his black cloak swirling in the wind… _That's ridiculous _I thought _he wouldn't have followed me all this way_... _would he?_

Raoul left me alone for a while and I wondered how he felt when he visited her here.

With sadness in my heart, I studied the simple inscription: _Here lies Christine de Chagny beloved wife and mother. _The dates of her birth and death were underneath. It didn't seem enough for her, somehow. It felt so strange to be finally here at my mother's resting place, so far from where I now lived. Both my "fathers" had agreed that I shouldn't attend the funeral as it would be too upsetting, and my papa seemed to regret this now, as did I. But I had promised myself that I would visit someday and here I was.

"I've come at last, Mother," I "told" her softly. "I can't believe it will be twelve years this September. I still miss you so much, you know. I'm older now, I'm not that little boy that you used to tuck in at night, but I wish you were still with me. "

I tried to fight back the tears, telling myself I was too old to cry now.

"Mister Y – Papa – has been bringing me up, just like you wanted him too. You know that, I'm sure - I've always thought you're looking down on me from.. somewhere better. It's hard sometimes, when we fall out, or he gets into one of his dark moods. Well, I guess you knew what his temper was like. He's told me all about his life – I suppose he told you as well, and it's just awful, he needs so much love and sometimes I feel I can't give it to him.… But you always told me to look with my heart, and I've tried to do that ever since. I've tried to love him, and I do. You were right, that night on the beach, you were right to leave me in his care although the idea frightened me at the time. You were able to love him, and forgive him, and that's what I must do.

The two of you should have been able to raise me together. Things should have been different. I'm sorry that you felt so alone when you were alive, especially towards the end. I wish I could have done more for you. I wish you could have told me things, but you just wanted to protect me, I know that. We didn't know what was ahead of us when we sailed off on that ship to America. Maybe you could have started your career again after that performance? Who knows? Meg…Meg is locked away now in an institution but I still can't forgive her, not yet. You should be on a stage singing, not here, not in this place…"

I wiped a tear away with my handkerchief, feeling like a child again.

"I love you Mother and I always will. You once said that you would always be proud of me and I hope you still are. I'm going back soon, going back to my father. I will stay with him always and take care of him, just like he took care of me. America is my home now, and I have Papa's surname. But I will never forget you, never…"

Raoul was standing beside me now and the two of us stood there for a while as the cold wind blew around us, lost in our thoughts.

"I'll keep visiting here, I promise," he told me brokenly. There were tears in his eyes and he turned away from me, ashamed.

I continued to stay in the hotel for the five days I stayed in Paris but Raoul and I met each morning and explored the city together, the parks, cafés and even the Eiffel Tower. At first, he seemed surprised that I wanted to spend any time with him, but it worked out well and the current political situation gave us plenty to talk about and prevented too many awkward silences.

After a little deliberation we even managed a night at the Opera House, to see a performance of Carmen. Apart from the elderly doorman who greeted Raoul warmly, there was no-one familiar to him in the building, either among the cast or the other staff, and most of the patrons did not recognise him. I drank in the sights around me, not just the sumptuous and tragic opera itself but the opulent surroundings, with the plush red seats, Rococo ceiling and gilt statues. How many of these patrons knew of the other world, far below us? This building was where it all happened, twenty three years ago…

It was no longer possible to visit the underground lake which disappointed me at the time but perhaps it was for the best.

We did not visit a bar during my visit but I saw Raoul's well stocked drinks cabinet in his apartment and I was not naïve enough to think that he had quit drinking completely. He did not talk about it and I did not ask him, but I hoped that he was at least drinking less than he used to. I honestly think we got on better in those few days than in the ten years we'd lived together.

We were sitting in the Bois on one of our days together, when Raoul told me that Professor Chapelle had died of cancer two years ago.

"I didn't know until after his funeral, unfortunately. He moved away around the time he left us but his niece wrote and told me, of course the letter got delayed... I know you were fond of him.."

Another part of my childhood was gone. I thought of how I used to stand at the window and watch for him coming up the drive.

"_Mother, the Professor's here!."_

"_Very good, Gustave, get your books quickly and don't keep him waiting."_

"_Oh, I hope he doesn't make me do Latin today!"_

"That's so sad. I owe him a lot, you know. He taught me so much and it was very useful when I started school in America. The poor fellow…"

I asked about Adele, our maid, who was thankfully still alive and had recently married. She was now living in Rouen, which made me think of Papa, and had stayed with Raoul until just before her wedding. She used to look after me sometimes when Raoul and Mother went out in the evening and it was a relief that she was happy now.

Raoul did not want to talk much about the events of the Opera House but he did tell me about his confrontation with Papa in the bar the night before Mother died and the bet they made. The details were not a complete shock to me- after all I knew my Papa fairly well by now and I'd had a few suspicions anyway. To be honest I just wanted to leave everything in the past – or at least that was what I told myself.

Raoul came to the railway station with me on my last day, to see me off. We stood on the platform side by side, all the sorrow and fears of the past finally laid to rest. As we waited together, he looked at me with such sadness that I almost regretted leaving him. But he put a hand on my shoulder awkwardly and addressed me solemnly.

"Go back to him, Gustave. Go back to your true father, the one who understands you more than I ever could. There's nothing for you here anymore. My people.. families like mine are dying out now. We're anachronisms in this new world and soon there will be no place for us. Go back to America where no-one cares about titles and all that... kind of thing. But please.. will you still write to me?"

He sounded so nervous and almost childlike when he spoke that last sentence.

"Of course I will – Father."

"You don't have to call... Oh, Gustave.. if only you had been my son!"

Just then, the train approached the station and we could hardly hear each other for the noise. When it pulled up, he opened the carriage door for me and we looked at each other, hardly knowing what to say. Finally we shook hands, but I hesitated before getting in, desperately wanting him to finally embrace me, not as his son but as a friend. But there was an impatient crowd behind us, trying to board the train and the moment was gone. I had to be content with leaning out a window to say my final goodbye. He wished me a pleasant journey and I told him to take care of himself just as the train pulled out, but I continued to look out the window until the train went under a bridge and he was lost from view.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Despite my intentions to the contrary, I found myself standing on the deck as France slipped away from me for the last time. When it was finally out of sight I returned to my cabin trying to put all my thoughts on to paper, just as I'm doing now, all these years later. During those nights on board, my dreams were confused and jumbled.. Louis and I rode the Ferris wheel together while Mother sang on the stage of the Phantasma theatre which somehow turned into the Opera Garnier and Papa sailed a gondola along an underground lake which opened out into the Hudson River… Two worlds colliding, but I knew which one I belonged to.

I looked forward to going home, to my real home and seeing Papa again, knowing how much he would have missed me. And I had missed the Trio, George, my music and all the wonders of Phantasma. Soon the season would be starting again and I was excited about what it would bring.

I thought of the de Chagny estate again during the crossing but now all I could see were Mother and Raoul fleeing there that night with Mother still wearing the wedding dress, or I saw her sneaking out that other night to visit Papa before she married someone else, and remembered all the secrets hidden from me…

But there was another estate, the one I've chosen to remember, where two boys play together and climb trees, with a little brown dog running around playfully. Where liveried carriages glide up the drive and elegantly dressed ladies emerge, to take tea from gold rimmed cups and nibble on dainty sandwiches. Where the flower beds are in full bloom, where the forest is full of mystery and darkness, where delicious meals are served at the dining room table. Where a mother and her little boy fill the house with sweet melodies and where nights are filled with fairy tales and lullabies, with Little Lotte and her Angel of Music…

And somewhere in that unreachable parallel world, my old childhood bedroom still waits for me.


	19. Love's a Curious Thing

**Just letting you know - there will be 2 more chapters after this one. I'm sorry about all the long chapters but the ideas keep coming and there are so many possibilities with a story like this! If you feel there's too many details, just let me know and I will keep the length of the next chapters down. Thanks to all who have reviewed so far and let me know what you think.**

Raoul and I continued to write to each other for many years, until just before his death. We exchanged pleasantries and news, but rarely mentioned the past, and he continued to visit Mother's grave regularly. I told him about all the major events in my life and about New York and Phantasma, and although he always gave the impression that he did not approve of me working there, he knew somehow that I belonged to it. He stayed on in the same apartment and never remarried. We sometimes made half-hearted plans to visit each other but between one thing and another it never came to pass. He died suddenly of a stroke in May 1940; ironically it was the same day that Germany invaded France for the second time in his lifetime. His nurse wrote and told me the sad news, but inevitably the letter was delayed and I received it long after his funeral took place.

I have found out since then that he was buried in the de Chagny family plot and that the title died out with him. It is likely that the estate and the village have been swallowed up by the sprawl of Paris but I have never been brave enough to find out what became of the chateau itself.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The end of the 1919 season came around very quickly but the final show was one of the best I can remember, with a selection of talented new acts, and of course, the Trio. I played the piano once more and was invited out on to the stage to take a bow at the final curtain. America's losses had been heavy during the war, but now it was over and people were flocking to Coney Island to try and forget their troubles for a little while.

Miss Fleck accompanied me to the employee's ball again; this was becoming a tradition of ours. She was still able to perform her act on the trapeze but she was older now and sometimes confided that she was not sure how much longer she could carry on. And what other job could she do? She was still my heroine, and indulged me with a few dances that evening, although I was now much taller than her.

"You're growing up," she murmured to me as we danced, "And yet sometimes I still see that little boy standing by the dockside, longing to enter Phantasma's gates…"

"Sometimes I think I am still him," I replied wistfully.

Afterwards, when everyone had gone home and Miss Fleck had left with her two colleagues, I lingered by the low wall separating me from the beach and looked out to sea, revelling in the stillness after all the excitement of the evening. Just as I was thinking of leaving for home, I felt a gloved hand on my shoulder and jumped.

"Papa! Why do you always have to creep up on me like that?"

"Sorry, son. Once a ghost, always a ghost, I suppose. Shall we take a stroll on the beach?"

I nodded. Now that I was an adult I didn't mind spending time with my father, especially after dark, which was the time we both loved best of all. We strolled along the sandy beach with our cloaks flapping gently in the breeze, discussing the ball, the preparations to close down Phantasma for the winter, and Papa's plans to invest in one of the new, respectable movie theatres in the city and perhaps open one here in Coney Island. Enough time had passed for us to take a walk on the beach without too many bad memories flooding back. Time was passing, healing some of our wounds at last.

We were so busy talking that we didn't notice we were now at Suicide Cove, which was, unfortunately, a well named landmark. Jack's Bar, to give it its proper name, was on the promenade directly across from us, and I remembered visiting it four years ago after Papa and I fell out. And it was also the place where he and Raoul had made that bet…

"Let's go home," I said quickly, turning around, but Papa had already seen what I was looking at.

He said nothing, but I knew that suspicious look well.

He knew – at least, he must have known – that Raoul would have filled in a few gaps for me during our time together. Yet he never mentioned it, not once. In the days following my return from France, he asked me about Paris, the opera we'd attended and of course, about Mother's grave, but never about what Raoul and I had discussed.

The next morning at breakfast, Papa remarked on how quiet I was recently.

"You've been like that ever since you came back from France, sitting there lost in your own thoughts every mealtime. Is anything the matter, son?" He laid a hand on mine and when I finally met his eyes, he was looking at me with such concern that I knew I had to tell him. Those eyes, searching mine….He always claimed he couldn't read minds but I'm not so sure.

"It's silly really.. but I've been wondering what would have happened, if Mother hadn't died. What would you have done?"

"I've told you this before. I would have married her, of course. The two of you would have lived here with me and I would have had a proper family at last. We would have all been happy."

"Do you think Raoul would have allowed her a divorce, after all the scandal he'd already endured?"

I have no idea why I asked him that, not when we were getting along so well. But although I tried to apologise, the damage was done. He put down his spoon and wiped his mouth roughly.

"You don't know what you are talking about, Gustave. You were just a child."

"Look, maybe he would have allowed her, but I just want to know-"

He stood up, knocking the table a little and the dishes made a clattering noise. But he didn't shout or cry, as he used to do at these times. He just gripped the edge of the table, his voice sad and resigned. "She should never have married him. I should never have left her that night and I spent ten years regretting that and wishing she was here with me, longing to hear her sing once more."

With slow footsteps he made his way out to the back garden, with me following him, and we sat on the bench together.

"While she was in France there was still hope, you see. And now there isn't. She's gone and both the vicomte and I lost her. Don't you understand? Yes, I was trying to lure her away from her husband, I admit that now, and I was desperate to have you both with me when I found out you were my son. But in the end, neither of us won. Neither of us…"

He still didn't cry. He just sat there, head bowed and truly defeated. And it was at that moment that I knew – we both knew, I think – that we could not keep dragging up the past. Things had happened a certain way and here we were, years later, unable to change any of them.

I have no idea if Mother would have left Raoul for him, regardless of her feelings. When I left them alone in the dressing room just before the show, they were getting on well again. Did she change her mind by the time Papa came to her, before they realised I was missing? And then there was that kiss, that final heartbreaking kiss... I have no way of knowing the truth except through the biased account of my father. But he was right about one thing. Neither he nor Raoul won in the end.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

During that fall, I was grateful for George's friendship although I also spent time at concerts with friends from college. George and I liked baseball games, movie theatres and good music, which helped distract my friend from his dull office job. A small theatre company was based a short train ride away and we enjoyed their musical performances which were fairly good for an amateur company. But the main reason for our attendance was the attractive female cast members, including a set of twins who agreed to go to a dance with us and promptly dumped us for two of the musicians. Such was our luck…

One evening, a few weeks before Christmas, the theatre was putting on a show featuring Christmas carols and songs, and the two of us bought tickets for it. Best of all, there would be refreshments served afterwards where we could meet the cast. That was what we loved about these small companies – you would never have a gathering like that on Broadway.

But Papa did not share my enthusiasm.

"I thought we could work on our plans to refurbish the Underwater Adventure," he told me irritably,

"But I've already bought my ticket!" I protested, producing the item in question from my pocket, "I told you this already."

Eventually he agreed but I was a bit irritable when George called to the door and I was glad to get on the train that evening, away from the seemingly never ending demands of running a top amusement park.

"Irene Mansfield is singing a few solos tonight, you should see her, she's really something," George informed me with a knowing look as we walked towards the venue, but I wasn't in the mood for flirting with anyone. I just wanted to listen to some nice music, nothing more.

We were sitting down waiting for the concert to start and George was looking through the programme. "That's strange," he muttered, "I don't see Irene's name here." A few enquiries revealed that the lady in question was ill and her place was taken by an understudy. My friend was not happy but I told him that I was going to enjoy the concert regardless of the disruption to his love life.

They sang all my favourite carols and I was content, just enjoying the music. Then the ensemble came on stage to sing "O Holy Night" and I waited in anticipation for this wonderful hymn to begin.

A soprano voice began the first verse, singing solo, and I sat up.

It was exquisite, even with just the opening notes. I just sat there, transfixed as the voice climbed up and down, before blending into the chorus. A technically perfect voice, to be sure, but it was the pure joy and emotion behind it all that fascinated me. Amazed, I looked at the owner of the voice: a young woman of around my age with long blonde hair and expressive eyes. Even from this distance I could tell that she was pretty.

Grabbing the programme off George, I looked down through the list of performances to find her name: Helen Ferguson. I'd never heard of her, but the audience were just as enraptured as I was as we listened to her sing all the verses with such power and skill.

"She's amazing!" I remarked to George as we stood and applauded, "She's hit all those notes perfectly and she's... gorgeous! Do you know who she is?"

He smirked. "No, but I've a feeling you're about to find out!"

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I don't know how it is that seemingly minor things can alter everything. A little girl's scarf falls into the sea and two young lives are changed forever. If I hadn't gone to that concert on that particular night, my life would have been completely different. Was it love, even then on that first evening? It almost wasn't anything after I tripped over someone's bag and fell on the floor right in front of her…

Despite that mishap, we went out to a café together the following day and other places too in the weeks that followed, including the New Year's fancy dress ball at Phantasma, where I almost scared her off by dressing as Red Death as my father once did under different circumstances. As an aside, I actually still have that same costume and it's in near perfect condition; in fact I wore it to a fancy dress party only last year and won first prize.

Helen had just finished her studies in music at a small college for women and had a part time teaching position in a private girls school, which later became full time. Even now, she enjoys teaching and often gives voice lessons here in the house. She was not even a member of the company but was drafted in at the last minute by the manager who was a family friend, and was only appearing for one night. Yes small things can have a huge effect, no doubt about that.

Within a few weeks, I knew I wanted to marry her. She took some persuasion however. Even now she claims jokingly that she only agreed to go on a date because she felt sorry for me after I tripped up. I usually respond by informing her that I fell in love with her voice, and had to marry the rest of her… But she is still the "star of the show" to me although the blonde hair I once loved is now grey and many years have passed since those lively days at the start of the Roaring Twenties. And after forty four years of marriage I still can't imagine spending my life with anyone else, even though she still enjoys telling people that I once went down on my hands and knees to ask her for a date…

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Our courtship was interspersed with periods of study as I worked towards my Masters' degree but it is the good times that stand out in my memory: dancing the foxtrot in Coney Island's crowded dance halls, walks in Prospect Park or along the beach, and of course, introducing Helen to Phantasma. She'd only been there once, when she was younger, but she'd heard of Mister Y and was interested to know more about him. Needless to say, I didn't know where to begin but I told her a little at a time and left out the things she didn't need to know. She was only ten when Mother died but she could remember her parents talking about it. She didn't fawn over me and my sad past like other girls did but just listened as I told her about "the soprano of the century" and my memories of her.

I was worried about introducing her to Papa, but it all worked out well in the end. They met briefly at the New Year's ball, although he retired early as usual. On the first evening I brought her home for dinner, she was a still a little bemused by his eccentric appearance, but she was determined not to stare. In fact, she was confident and polite with him, making conversation about Phantasma and other topics that would appeal to him. And Papa was enchanted by her. She was a strong, lively young lady and most of all she taught music, which could only serve to endear her to him.

But sometimes there were questions that bothered me. What if I turn out like my father? What if I become obsessive and start following Helen everywhere, or get jealous and angry if she talks to another man? What if I decide to try and keep her all to myself? But none of those things happened and I began to realise that I was not doomed to follow his path completely.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

One night in the summer of 1921 I lead her by the hand into Phantasma after the visitors were gone home for a special ride on the Ferris wheel, which I'd arranged beforehand with Jake, the attendant. When the car got to the highest point of the rotation, the wheel stopped, as I knew it would. Helen was not scared of heights but she was still a bit startled until I reassured her. And it was there, high above Phantasma with the backdrop of a starry sky that I asked her to marry me – and she accepted.

We both knew our marriage would not be conventional. I'd known for several years that the woman who married me would practically have to marry Papa too, and that was a tall order for anyone. But despite her initial misgivings, Helen took my father on as well as me, for which I am eternally grateful.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I had achieved my Master's degree by now but was fully immersed in helping to run Phantasma. Joe was past retirement age and although his youngest son Frank was being trained to take over from him, I often had to make major decisions now. Neither of his two older sons were interested in that line of work any more and both of them lived elsewhere. Although most visitors now only came for the day and the hotel was struggling, the park itself was doing well as were our other investments. So I was fairly sure I could support Helen and our future family. There was one small matter to be taken care of before we married though and Papa and I had many discussions about it.

"Papa, Helen is going to be living with us and what if she walks in on you when you don't have your mask on? Surely it's best she sees your face when we're all sitting down together, calmly and quietly."

Eventually he agreed, and one Sunday afternoon after the three of us had had a pleasant walk along the promenade together and eaten lunch, we retired to the sitting room where Papa removed his wig and slowly peeled off his mask to reveal the face that I was so accustomed to.

I'd prepared Helen in advance for this, describing the disfigurement as best I could and even attempting to draw a picture of it. She gasped a little, her eyes widened and she put her hand to her chest, but she did not scream, faint or run out the door. And as she looked at her future father in law without malice or fear I knew it was all right. Yes, the face was deformed and she took a while to become completely comfortable with it, but she accepted it, and I loved her for that.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

We married in May 1923 before the season began, and I can still remember Papa and I sitting on our balcony the night before, looking towards our beloved Phantasma and both of us aware that everything was about to change in twenty four hours. A new era was beginning. It was warm enough to sit outside at last but I was sipping from a mug of hot chocolate which Papa had insisted on making for me, just like when I was younger.

"We've had some great times up here, haven't we?" he asked me quietly.

"There'll be more great times," I assured him, squeezing his hand, "Only there'll be three of us instead of two, and hopefully more in time."

"You've always been such a good son, you know," he continued, "I couldn't have asked for a better partner, assistant... a better friend…" He put his arm around me and I swallowed. "I know you will be a good husband and father. You're marrying a lovely, talented woman and I hope you will be happy together."

"Thank you, Papa. I hope the _three_ of us will be happy together. But make sure you look after yourself and eat your meals while we're on our honeymoon; I've asked Miss Fleck to call around to you each day and check up on you!"

He'd insisted on paying for our honeymoon in a quiet resort in New Jersey and I thanked him once more for this, truly grateful for all his kindness.

He withdrew his arm slowly and looked at the ground, rubbing his neck like I did when I was nervous.

"G-Gustave, is there…" he stammered. It was so unusual for him to stutter like this and I looked at him, surprised.

"Is there... anything you n-need to know?"

When I told him there wasn't, he let out a huge sigh of relief.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Earlier today, I was browsing through an old photo album of our wedding photographs, a collection of formal looking black-and-white images that conjured up so many memories for me. There we were, our younger selves, looking so happy and hopeful, with Helen in her traditional white dress and myself in my dark looking suit and top hat. There was a picture of the Trio, who would be almost unrecognisable to Phantasma's visitors with their smart wedding outfits and neatly combed hair; I think Miss Fleck wore a pale blue dress and the other pair had dark grey suits. Dr Gangle and Mr Squelch did not enjoy wearing suits and ties but their "sister", as they called her, reminded them that they could not draw attention to themselves on this special day. They were so proud that day, eulogising about how their "little boy" was married and grown up now.

Being Mister Y's son there was some attention from the press but they were not as obtrusive as I thought they would be and my father soon got rid of them, although goodness knows how.

Both of us were Catholics and the wedding was a traditional ceremony in Helen's church. That was one church service my father was definitely _not_ getting out of. Nor did he wish to. "You should have one parent there, at least," he reasoned, but I knew he was secretly looking forward to it. George was my best man and tried to calm my nerves as I waited at the top of the church for my bride to be. To add to my anxiety, when my father came in he immediately sat at the back away from everyone, just as I'd predicted. But my old friend and wedding guest Father Donovan had other ideas. He walked down the aisle to where Papa was sitting and, putting a hand on his shoulder, guided him to his feet and led him to the front row.

"Good to see you, Mister Y, I hope you enjoy the service. It must be such an exciting day for you," he told him, gently and without fuss. My father thanked the priest then smiled over at me and we both knew the day was going to turn out well.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I looked at the album until Helen came back from the supermarket and I helped her put the groceries away. We talked about that long ago day while we drank coffee and I looked sadly at the one photograph that I have of Papa, dressed in the dark grey suit he wore as a compromise instead of his usual black. He always refused steadfastly to have his photograph taken, except on this day.

We also looked at pictures of Christine and Charles when they were younger, thinking sadly of the hurtful things my son and I have said to each other. Our telephone call the other day was strained but I did tell him that I loved him.

"Gus, the grass is getting long again, I'm afraid, and those pansies need to go into a bigger pot," my wife remarked as she looked out the window, "The shed could do with a lick of paint, too. If the nice weather lasts you could get these jobs done easily enough."

This is life, this is marriage. Some of the time anyway. The mundane, the everyday, not big melodrama and obsessive love, that's what it's like when you live in the real world and not underneath an opera house. But when we were married first I sometimes thought my love for Helen was far inferior to what my father must have felt for my mother. Nonetheless, I loved Helen with all my heart, and always will. I may never have spied on her through mirrors, kidnapped her from a stage or made an automaton that looks like her, but I daresay she can get by without that kind of "love".

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

On the 16th April 1925 I paced anxiously up and down the living room while Papa gently chided me for wearing out the carpet. I couldn't help it though. What if something went wrong? But it didn't and when the midwife appeared in the doorway, the two of us looked towards her with bated breath.

"Congratulations Mr Durand, you have a healthy daughter!""

Papa and I hugged each other, and then I headed straight upstairs to see our firstborn child, with my father insisting on giving us some time alone before joining us.

I will never forget the moment I first held my daughter in my arms. I was a father, a _father_… At last I understood how Papa felt all these years, only I was seeing my child almost from the time she was born. I knew I would do anything to protect this defenceless little thing, and it was with some reluctance that I finally went to summon my father from downstairs. With all the gentleness I could muster I laid the tiny bundle in his arms. I could see tears forming behind the mask as he held her and my heart ached for him.

"This is Christine," Helen told him softly, "Christine Helen Durand, your granddaughter."

"Christine.." he whispered, gazing at her in complete adoration. "I can't believe it.. … I never got to hold you like this Gustave… I never even thought I would be a father, and now I have a granddaughter.. Thank you... Thank you both…"

Not for the first time I noticed my father was getting old. He was 68 by now, by his estimation, and showing all the signs of aging, including lines and wrinkles on his face. "Even my good side is ugly now!" he used to complain but at least the rest of the human race shared this fate with him. He was troubled by arthritis too and usually walked with a stick. Yes, he was getting old and increasingly set in his ways.

But he was holding a new generation in his arms, and he was content, truly content, that day.


	20. For Better, For Worse

**This was supposed to be the penultimate chapter but I've done something I hadn't planned on doing - I've split it into 2 shorter chapters. You'll see why when you read it... The second "half" will follow very soon. Please read and review, and thanks for all the reviews so far!**

Needless to say, Christine's arrival turned our lives upside down. Helen was adamant that she did not want to hire a nanny, and I agreed with her, but we did hire a cleaning lady to come in each day, to relieve some of the burden.

It was not always easy with a crying baby in the house, but Papa and I worked hard on my – our – Snow Queen opera, my father determined that it would be performed some day. For such a reclusive man, he had a surprising amount of influence in the opera world. We worked in the Aerie as much as possible, where it was quieter, and he stubbornly insisted on climbing every one of those stairs, despite his walking stick. Sometimes he even allowed me to help him. Eventually I persuaded him to work at home, at ground level, which was a huge relief for me.

Our lives were thrown into even more disarray when Charles arrived three years later, but I was overjoyed to have a son and looked forward to teaching him all the things Papa taught me.

That year, the year I turned thirty-one, was difficult for me. I was now older than Mother had been when she died and Papa seemed to understand how I was feeling. Yet again I wished she could still be here, knowing what a brilliant grandmother she would have made.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Helen amazed me with the way she could stand up for herself and get her father in law to do things, like eat a decent meal. Sometimes Papa would take just a few mouthfuls of his dinner then politely excuse himself and rise to leave the table. But Helen's hand on his arm would stop him in his tracks.

"Oh no you don't, mister. I've worked hard on that and you're going to sit and eat it, even if I have to stand over you."

Her words would earn her a dirty look, but then slowly he would sit down again and begrudgingly lift his fork then eat with deliberately slow movements, giving his daughter in law an occasional glare. But he ate, and often cleared his plate too.

I could never understand how she could do this. If it had been me… But Papa seemed to have a deeply rooted respect for women and secretly he was very fond of the lady that his son had married. It was mutual, once my wife got used to his eccentricity. Helen even cleaned his mask for him and went to the pharmacy to collect the lotions he used on his chafed skin and itchy scalp. They sometimes argued over their favourite piece of music or art, or other such matters, which could be quite amusing sometimes. To be honest, I think they both enjoyed their disagreements; Papa certainly did, and he revelled in his occasional victories.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

One evening I got home from Phantasma to hear a blazing row erupting in the sitting room.

"Erik, for heaven's sake, she is three years old, she was just playing a game!"

"It is not a game for me!" Papa bellowed.

"What on earth is going on?" I demanded, stepping into the room. Christine was clinging to her mother, crying her eyes out. When she saw me, she ran to my arms and I lifted her up, trying to comfort her and sort everything out. It transpired that Christine had grabbed Papa's mask playfully while he was napping and run off with it, laughing. He had woken straight away and completely lost his temper with her, which, not surprisingly, had frightened the life out of the poor child.

My father was sitting in the armchair, his head in his hands and utterly contrite. "I'm so sorry, truly I am! It's just I'm not used to people doing that in a playful way... " Just then a baby's cry was heard from upstairs and my wife sighed in exasperation.

"Great! Now Charlie's awake!" she snapped. She gestured towards Papa. "Gustave, can you please talk to your father? I have a crying baby and a distraught child on my hands, and I don't have time for his…problems." With that she breezed out of the room.

He _was_ sorry. He adored Christine and didn't mean to upset her, he never stopped to think about what he was doing… Gently I reassured him, and the two managed to become friends again.

But Helen was not happy and we had a heated discussion about my father's temper later on.

"He didn't hurt her physically, he would never do that, I know it," I contended, in response to her concerns.

She shook her head slowly.

"That's the problem, Gustave, you don't know that. Even he doesn't know that."

We were silent for a while, and I realised she could be right.

"He's sorry, he really is. It's just.. With the life he's had…When he first came to New York and he was in the freak show, they used to pull his mask off- "

She held her hand up to interrupt me. "Are you going always going to make excuses for him? Christine's fine now but what about the next time? Maybe I need to have a serious chat with him?"

"No, don't upset him,"I urged her, "He's calmed down... I'll take him for a walk tonight, get him out for a little while."

"Tonight! Honestly, it's like living with Dracula sometimes! All those scary looking novels in his room, and I can't even persuade him to wear brighter colours."

"You knew what he was like when you married me, Helen," I reminded her pointedly.

She sighed. "I know, I know… But you need to be firm with him about these outbursts."

"It's not that easy… I owe him so much and Mother would have wanted me to be patient with him. She knew what he was like, and still loved him."

But she'd had enough of my meekness.

"For heaven's sake, Gustave! You've been dancing around your father since you were ten years old, trying not to do or say anything that would upset him or make him angry. Look, I'm sorry his childhood was horrible. I'm sorry he was put on display when he came here. And I'm sorry your mother was killed, I truly am. But how much longer are you going to use the past as an excuse, both of you?"

I did not want to hear these harsh words, because they were the truth.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

But there were good times too. One of my fondest memories is leaving my father alone with his grandchildren on his knee while I worked on Phantasma business and returning to find the three of them fast asleep together, my daughter and baby son snuggled against him. Christine loved his stories and songs, just as I once did, and always wanted him to tuck her in. Charlie, although very small, was fascinated by him too. Papa had missed out on these early years with me, so I didn't mind the three of them spending so much time together, and when they took their first steps, on both occasions it was their grandfather's arms they walked towards.

He enjoyed watching us dance with the children to jazz records on the phonograph, despite his dislike of the tinny, crackly sound that came from the large contraption. He preferred pure, live music and he and I often played the piano or violin in the evenings, with Helen's beautiful voice accompanying us.

When he was calm, he was wonderful and his grandchildren were the joy of his life. After that misunderstanding with the mask, he gradually learnt to use it as a toy. He would hide it for Christine to find and laugh with her as she returned it to him triumphantly. Now when she snatched the mask off him, he would chase her playfully around the room.

They were both dearly loved by the Trio too, who continued to be regular visitors and got along well with Helen, who was always bemused by their outlandish costumes. Dr Gangle entertained them with funny faces and impersonations while Miss Fleck taught Christine handstands and cartwheels from an early age. And Mr Squelch... he was so funny when he held them upside down, or threw them over his shoulders. Right up to the end he regularly met us at the gates of Phantasma, with his two friends following behind of course, greeting us with that booming voice. Then he would effortlessly lift up the two of them together, put one on each shoulder and carry them into the park.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Things were not looking good for Phantasma by the time Charlie was about a year old. There was so much competition now from other resorts on Long Island, New Jersey or even further afield. More and more families owned cars now, and they could travel wherever they wished. But Frank and I were determined not to give up and concentrated our advertising on our newer attractions such as the indoor, heated swimming pool or "Mister Y's Deluxe Movie Experience".

The Trio continued to..well, be the Trio, with Miss Fleck now training the acrobatic troupe and the trapeze artists. Dr Gangle remained as strange as ever, at least in public; one minute he would be chatting with me about visitor numbers, the next he would be doffing his top hat and welcoming bewildered visitors : "Welcome to Phantasma, my friends, allow me to invite you to our Haunted House… You'll love it, it's an absolute _scream_…"

The 1929 stock market crash hit us hard. Not only did we lose many of our stocks and shares, the poverty and unemployment of that era had a highly negative effect on Phantasma. We did not even have many jobs to offer people. Papa and I threw ourselves into our opera, trying to take our minds off things. He did not spend as much time at the park now, and trusted me implicitly, although he always attended meetings. A bad dose of pneumonia that winter left him with a weak heart and I was increasingly concerned for his health. He hated doctors and always preferred to use his home made potions, which he sensibly kept out of the children's reach.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

On the 1st September 1931, our opera had its wonderful premiere at the New York Met. It was a glorious spectacle, with lavish costumes and sets, in addition to a very realistic blizzard on stage. And the singers portraying Kai and Gerda were amazing, just as I had envisaged them. The innocence they exuded more than made up for the fact they were much older than the characters, by necessity. Also we'd had to change the story to make it fit into the medium of opera, but we were more than happy with the result. The three of us sat in our private box, soaking it all up.. Here was our opera, finally on a stage!

How many in that audience that night would have guessed that the opera they were watching had been twenty six years in the making?

"Thank you, Papa," I told him as the interval began, squeezing his gloved hand briefly.

"Thank _you_, son, for making me care about music once more."

I could not help but think of that little boy in the drawing room of a French chateau, trying to play the notes in his head, knowing that he had no choice but to compose that opera but not knowing how… The story seemed so much more alive to me now; a tale of a boy and a girl who loved stories and playing together, one of them getting lured away by an evil force, the other child setting out to rescue them.. and I was not sure who I had written it about – Kai and Gerda of the original story, or Mother and Raoul.

The director came on stage at the end and asked the composers to stand up, which we didn't expect. We glanced at each other nervously and slowly got to our feet to look out at the grateful audience. Papa had refused to go on stage and I refused to go on without him, but now here we were with the spotlight shining on us, receiving a standing ovation…All eyes were on me and the mysterious Mister Y, no longer hiding in the shadows but loved for his music, just as he should have been all along.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

We did nothing but talk of that opera for the next week. Every scene, aria and movement was broken down and analysed by the two of us until Helen jokingly threatened to leave me if we spoke another syllable about it. Papa seemed to come alive again, despite his increasingly grey complexion and frailty. He needed help with doing most things now and sometimes allowed Helen to make up a bed for him in the sitting room. He hated being old and dependent, and who can blame him when he was self-sufficient for so long? I offered sympathetic words, but it's easy to do that when you're young.

The closing show was poorly attended, which had been the case for the last few years. Frank did his best to attract more visitors but it felt increasingly like we were flogging a dead horse. The visitors that did come were not always there to have fun either. One day during the summer I arrived to find Mr Squelch escorting a troublemaker from the park by the scruff of his neck.

"Get your hands off me, you filthy half-breed!" he shouted indignantly.

"Quarter breed, to be precise," my friend retorted, "And I'm _all _strongman!"

With that he dumped the young ruffian unceremoniously outside the gates. "Next time I'm calling the police!"

But despite his bravado, he was just as worried as I was and anxious to make the park as safe as he could. I tried not to burden Papa with these concerns. Helen was right; I was always trying to protect him.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

After the closing show, in which I played the piano as usual, I returned home to find Helen on her way to bed and my father still awake, just sitting on the sofa."He's been looking forward to you coming home," my wife told me just before she went upstairs.

When I entered the room to join him, I saw that he was holding the musical monkey he had given me all those years ago, before we'd even met in person.

"Sit with me for a while, son," he said to me in French. Ever since my marriage to Helen, we'd mostly used to English with each other, even when we were alone. Exhausted, I sank on to the sofa next to him and told him all about the show, the different acts and the tunes I'd played. It was good to unwind and talk in our mother tongue for a while, or just sit there and listen to the clock tick. After a while he wound up the monkey toy and we listened to that strange tune, the one from that long ago world I'd never known.

"_Masquerade_.." he sang softly and slowly.. _"Paper faces on parade.. Masquerade.. Hide your face so the world will never find you…"_

I'd heard the tune many times but he'd never sung the words until now. Without thinking, I laid my head on his shoulder.

"You haven't done that in a long time," he remarked, turning his head to look at me.

"No.. But I'm just tired, I guess. Hope you don't mind. It's been a busy week, with the opera, the end of the season…"

"A beginning and an end," he remarked weakly, .. " Yes, you must be tired.…You are always working so hard as well as taking care of me. Such a good son, you know. It's been hard for you, having a father like me.."

He did not look well at all and I offered to call the doctor.

"No," he growled, "Money grabbing imbeciles, the whole lot of them..I'll be fine."

Then his voice returned to the gentler, melodic tone that I loved.

"Well, perhaps later, if I'm still unwell, thank you. Just sit with me for a while, please, Gustave.. I was so proud of you last week, when the audience stood up at the end. I've always been proud of you.. I remember you often fell asleep on my shoulder or in my arms when you were young. Do you remember that?" Nodding, I chuckled softly and kept my head on his shoulder, feeling as contented as I did when I was young.

"You were a lovely, innocent boy," he continued, "I could never quite believe you were mine.. Yet you are… You changed my life when you came to live with me."

"Well, you changed my life too," I replied, yawning.

"Why don't you sleep for a while, dear?"

"I need to go to bed…" I murmured sleepily, although I was dimly aware that he had started to sing again.

I tried to stay awake. I truly did. But sleep overtook me and I when I woke the clock on the mantelpiece informed me it was over an hour later.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. "Why did you let me sleep so long?" I grumbled. There was no answer and I could see that Papa's eyes were closed.

"Don't tell me you fell asleep as well!" I teased, rising groggily. "What a pair we are!" I shook him gently. "You're not sleeping here, Papa, you'll wake up stiff in the morning and be even grumpier that usual. Come on, let's-"

I looked at him. He was lying still, absolutely still. I shook him harder, half expecting him to jolt awake and start grumbling. But nothing happened.

His complexion was greyer than ever and my heart began pounding like a drum. Slowly I leaned down and laid my head against his chest. Nothing. Then I checked his pulse. Again nothing. Frantically I checked both again, praying silently for a different result.

_Oh God. Oh God.. no, please.._

"Papa, please wake up! Please… Don't leave me…"

But I knew the truth. With my whole body trembling I sank to my feet and laid my head on his chest, a cry of pain erupting from my throat.

My father had left me forever.


	21. Divinest Anguish

**Here is the rest of that chapter that I split in half! The next (and last) installment will be ready soon. By the way, the chapter title is taken from Emily Bronte's amazing if depressing poem "Remembrance" which Gustave quoted from briefly in the first chapter. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far. To charleygirl: I wasn't able to send you a PM but thank you for your great review, it was very encouraging.**

I did not hear the footsteps on the stairs and so I jumped when the door opened and Helen asked me if I was not coming to bed. Then she looked at Papa, lying so still and so grey and she knew. She put her hands over her face, her eyes wide. Then slowly she knelt by my side and put her arms around me.

"Oh Gustave, I'm so sorry, so very sorry…"

She took over everything that night, and the next day. For me, it all felt like a dream. First the doctor arriving to confirm what we already knew, then the undertaker, all the tiresome formalities… I was hesitant about removing Papa's mask for our visitors, but both assured me that they had seen worse. I remember I knelt by the sofa where he was lying and kissed the deformed side of his face. To my surprise Helen did the same and when she rose, there were tears in her eyes.

I did not replace the mask.

"He's never wearing this thing again," I announced bitterly.

At some point the next morning I went out to the back yard and fired the white porcelain mask against the wall where it shattered. Then, with surprising calmness I got a dustpan and brush and swept up the pieces.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

In the days before the funeral, and even during it, I seemed to function like one of Phantasma's automatons. The telephone and the doorbell never stopped ringing, people came and went, neighbours, employees, old friends from college and George of course, soon to depart for his new life in California. The Trio came together, mourning for their beloved master and I tried to comfort a distraught Miss Fleck. We could not have got through it all without the practical help from Helen's sisters and other relatives. Poor Christine was bewildered by everything and Charlie didn't understand; today his memories of his Grandpa Erik are shadowy, being only three years old when he died.

"Thank you for coming" "Yes, it was very sudden, it was his heart you see" "No he hadn't been ill, yes it was a quick passing" "Yes, it's a very sad time for us" "No I don't think we need anything at the moment, thank you" "Everyone's been very kind"

Cliché after cliché, platitude after platitude… it was all I could do to keep myself together. George and other friends were wonderful in the way they tried to deflect the inevitable stream of nosy reporters who insisted on annoying me with their never ending questions.

"Mr Durand, is there any truth in the rumour that Mister Y was murdered by an organised crime gang who wanted control of Phantasma?" one of them asked and I felt like punching him. They were the last people I wanted to see but I somehow managed to get fob them off with bland, non-committal answers and finally they slunk away in disappointment.

Papa would have hated the funeral service but I wanted this much for him. What would he have made of the packed church, of all the people who came to bid farewell to him? Not just our own employees but workers and managers from rival parks, local traders, the staff from Mario's and all our old haunts…Even the mayor and several City Hall officials were there, to pay tribute to this archetypal immigrant who fled from persecution and prejudice in his native land to make an indelible contribution to his host country. Of course, there is another side to his story which only I knew about but why should the truth get in the way of a good myth?

Father Donovan, now in his late fifties and still a good friend of mine, led the ceremony, but I hardly heard any of it. It was too early to think of his spiritual condition, too soon to contemplate his eternal destiny. I could not think beyond this day, beyond getting through it without breaking down in tears.

_Heart failure _the doctor told us. But anyone could die of heart failure! This was Mister Y, the Opera Ghost.. It was so utterly banal. And I had been asleep when he slipped away… "It would have happened very quickly, sir, there wasn't anything you could have done. Please don't blame yourself," Dr Meyler told me gently yet firmly, and I knew I must accept that or go insane.

Even the cemetery was remarkably sunny for the middle of September. I kept expecting something to happen, some kind of sign. But the sky didn't darken overhead, there was no clap of thunder, no unearthly chorus singing his dark music. Nothing. Such strange thoughts kept me from grieving too much, in public anyway.

Other strange thoughts occurred to me as my wife and I stood by the fresh grave afterwards, the children having gone back to the house with their aunt and uncle. _Did he know? Did he know that it would be that very evening? Was that why he wanted me with him? _All the mysteries that have died along with him…

I knew that soon a gravestone would be erected here, bearing the name Erik Durand and it would be one grave in a whole row of graves, in a huge cemetery. And it dawned upon me, even then at the height of my grief that in death my father was, finally, just like everyone else.

When we got home from the funeral I became an automaton again, making small talk to our friends and neighbours, handing out plates of sandwiches, thanking everyone for coming …I have to admit, there were several times when I found myself thinking: _Why couldn't he have been this popular when he was alive?_ To think he had only just begun to be famous for the music that he loved, not, as he put it, the "glorified noise" we used to write.

At last a blessed silence descended on the house, one which would become oppressive in the coming days. As the sun began to set, I took his hat and gloves from where Helen had put them, retreated to our bedroom and sat quietly on the bed, simply looking at these familiar, much loved articles and remembering. "_Masquerade.. paper faces on parade_.." I began to sing, but it would never sound the same coming from my lips.

Later that evening, I went to our balcony where we'd shared all our thoughts and dreams and sat on the bench, my initial shock wearing off to be replaced by heart wrenching grief and an unyielding lump in my throat. It was there that I finally allowed myself to cry for the man who was everything to me. Like when my mother died, my tears would not stop once they started only now I had no parent to comfort me, no-one to carry me to bed or tuck me in. I remember Helen holding me during those dark days while I reverted to some kind of child-like state, crying for my papa and wanting him so much it hurt.

When Christine came to me and asked me why I wouldn't play with her, my heart broke. I took her in my arms and held her close.

"I'm just sad about Grandpa Erik, darling," I told her softly, kissing the top of her head. Her innocent face brought me to my senses. This could not continue. I could not go on grieving the way I did when Mother died. I was not a vulnerable child – I was thirty four years old with a wife and two small children, and now my six year old daughter needed me just as I once needed my papa.

"Maybe I could tell you a story?" I asked her gently, and she nodded, grinning.

"This is a story my mother used to tell me when I was your age, and _her_ father told it to her when _she_ was little," I explained, "It's about a girl called Little Lotte."

She put her head against my chest and I felt that familiar surge of love, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility. Perhaps I did not truly grow up until that day.

Charlie was playing with his toys on the floor, still unable to comprehend all the sadness in the house, but when I asked him if he wanted a story he got up and came over to us eagerly, clutching his stuffed elephant. I lifted him on to my other knee and with my two precious children snuggled against me I settled back into my story.

"Little Lotte was beautiful, just like the two of you. She had yellow hair, yellow like the sun. She loved her doll and her violin. Every night, her father would tell her about the Angel of Music…"

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I thought I would be miserable after writing about the death of my father. And yes, I do miss him and always will. But something unexpected has happened. Yesterday, while I was writing the doorbell rang and Helen went to answer it.

A few minutes later she put her head around the door.

"Gus, I think you'd better leave your attempt to win the Nobel Prize for Literature and come downstairs," she told me with excitement in her voice.

When we entered the sitting room, our visitor rose from the sofa, a younger man with my features and build. He is like me in so many ways, with the same temper and stubbornness - and that's the problem.

"Charles..." I breathed.

He nodded, smiling warily, still a bit sceptical but he's _here_…

I stepped towards him, and slowly we shook hands.

"I can't believe it.." I gasped.

"I had to come, Dad, I had to see what's gotten into you... Telephoning me out of the blue, telling me you love me?"

"That's because I do, son," I told him gently, putting my arms around him. Slowly, cautiously, he returned my embrace and I closed my eyes.

"Has my real father been kidnapped by aliens or something?" he asked teasingly.

"Let's just say I've been learning a few lessons from the past."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

At the end of the 1933 season I stood solemnly beside the Trio as Frank closed the gates of Phantasma for the last time, following several years of rapidly declining visitor numbers and profits. I cannot describe the hole that the loss of that place has left in my life and my heart. So many memories spread across those twenty six years! Even before I came here, I loved it, sitting under the oak tree on the lawn, looking through the brochure, or Mother and I on the deck of the ship, discussing what rides we would go on. Every inch of that place contained a memory; the newsstand where Mother bought me my first book in English, the Ghost Train that Papa and I went on during our first proper day together, the café where I used to work for all those happy summers, the Ferris wheel where I proposed to Helen…

The Trio stood in silence with their heads bowed, trying to comfort each other. Where else could they feel they belonged? This was part of them, their home, their workplace, their whole life. Miss Fleck, who was standing next to me, looked up at me with her eyes full of heart-breaking sadness and I silently embraced her, unable to express how I felt about my dear friend or her "brothers". We all knew it would be the beginning of the end for them.

There was Joe, the former manager who I first met during my first few days here, now getting on in years and as deaf as a post, but I remembered how kind he was to me and how much I l learnt under his employment. His wife, his other sons and their families were there too, and I thought of how Frank had played with me when I was a child and how he helped me build a snowman during my first American winter.

Many former employees were there too and I thanked all of them individually for coming. Everyone had their own memories to share and we made it as happy an occasion as we could, despite the circumstances. Coney Island's glory days were long over but we hoped they would return some day. Everyone assembled there agreed that it was a good thing Mister Y did not live to see this day.

We moved out of Coney Island the following year, having seen the neighbourhood decline rapidly over the last few years. We both wanted a safer place for our children, further away from the city and all its problems. The success of my opera had led to commissions for a variety of musical pieces and it was clear that my future now lay entirely in the world of music. I did not abandon the Trio and helped them get other jobs in a circus, but I only saw them occasionally after Phantasma closed as they were travelling constantly. When the circus went bankrupt, they separated for the first time ever to work in various seaside theatres. Not that it mattered to them where they lived or worked. After that heart-breaking day, nothing was ever the same for them again.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The four of us, my wife and my grown up children made a rare family visit today to Papa's grave. We like to keep it tidy, although I would still dearly love to scratch out his birth name and engrave "Mister Y" on that headstone. The estimated year of his birth suggests that he was 75 when he died; ironically Raoul died at that age too. We paused there for a little while in that quiet place and I thought sadly of the mysterious, tortured man I feared, pitied, resented – and loved.

As a churchgoer, I have often been troubled by my father's contempt for spiritual matters when he was alive. Even now I cannot bear to contemplate his eternal destiny in any detail. One small comfort for me in the years following his death was the story in the Bible of the thief on the cross; the one who repents and is accepted by Christ at the eleventh hour. Surely God will show compassion on this lost child of his too? Surely the love my father bore for me and my family proves that he was not beyond hope? With all my heart I pray that he is finally reunited with Mother, never to be separated again. I wish I could offer a definite answer but I cannot. I can only leave Papa to God's justice, which is greater than man's.

After leaving my father's grave we stopped to pay homage at the three graves lying side by side, just as the occupants requested many years ago. A name is engraved on each headstone but these are their birth names, not the names I knew them as. The simple headstones do not do them justice, do not represent what my dear friends were to me or to the people that met them. Rejected by the world, my father gave them an environment where they would not just exist, but thrive, and in the memory of all four of them I will continue to visit and tend their graves for as long as I can.


	22. And Time Keeps Moving On

**Here is the last chapter! Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. I feel emotionally drained :) but I have really enjoyed writing this. ****I hope you all find it a satisfactory conclusion and please let me know what you think!**

_**Time heals what reason cannot. - Seneca**_

It's been several weeks since I wrote anything in this journal. I've been spending time with my son, having the conversations we should have had long ago. He's still the same, with his obstinate nature and his controversial, forthright opinions on politics and the world in general, but I love him, despite everything. His wife and children – my other grandchildren -came to join him here in New York for the last few days of the summer vacation and it has been wonderful getting to know them properly. We will be spending Christmas with them in Boston, and all of us are looking forward to that.

The present has been occupying my time, in many ways, but now I find myself thinking about all I've written here. "Memory is such a strange thing" – these were the first words I wrote at the start of this account and they are still true. How much of this story is my own interpretation and how much is objective and real? Those early, precious years with my mother feel like a dream now, and even the Phantasma years seem so far off. But I know in my heart it all happened.

Christine is accompanying her husband on some business trip to Philadelphia so the children are staying with us for the weekend. I went to say goodnight to them earlier, and it warmed my heart to see Laura, the youngest and my little angel, snuggled up to my old stuffed bear, now known as Teddy. And 12 year old Stephen had his nose in a book as usual and will probably still be reading it long after he should be asleep. He reminds me so much of myself at that age, with his love of learning and his insatiable curiosity. I'm already introducing him gradually to some of my darker books, like Edgar Allen Poe, and he is fascinated by them. Yes, Papa is alive and well in this child. Maybe we can plan his Halloween costume together this year? Pity I'm too old to go trick-or-treating myself….

But earlier today he was telling me a story that I can't get out of my mind.

It all began with the tension between him and his mother when she dropped the two of them off. She informed me that he'd torn the nice sweater Helen and I gave him for his birthday, on the first day he'd worn it and she hadn't had a chance to sew up the tear before leaving on her trip.

"Sweetheart, if that's the worst thing he gets up to when he becomes a teenager, you'll have nothing to worry about," I told her wryly, and she had to agree.

After Christine left, Helen took Laura into the kitchen to bake cookies and I chastised my grandson playfully as we enjoyed a mug of hot chocolate, something else we both like.

"Looks like you're in the doghouse, Steve. But don't worry; it'll all blow over soon enough. I know your mother well, remember."

"It's not fair! She keeps going on about it and I was only trying to help someone," he complained.

"Now I didn't know this part. Why don't you start at the beginning?" I asked him gently.

He relaxed a little at my words. I like being a grandfather; you become the ally, instead of the disciplinarian.

"There's this girl in my class, she moved to the neighbourhood during the summer. Anyway, I was walking home from school yesterday and I could see her up ahead of me, being bullied by some boys from our school. They wouldn't give her back her scarf and they were laughing at her. So I went to tell them to leave her alone."

"That was brave of you - I think," I remarked warily, "What happened next?"

"Well, just as I got there they threw Anna's scarf up into a tree and it got tangled in the higher branches. Then the two of them just walked off laughing. She was a bit upset about it so I climbed the tree, untied the scarf and threw it down to her. Then when I started to climb down again my sweater got caught on a branch, but I didn't realise that at first… and that's how it got torn," he added sheepishly.

"Your grandma must have dragged me around a hundred shops trying to find the right one! Still, it could have been a lot worse. I hope this Anna was grateful, after all that?"

"Oh yes, she was. You see, her grandma knitted the scarf for her a few years ago, just before she died, so it was really important to her. I just wanted to rescue it for her and there was no-one else around."

A silly thought occurred to me then, and I tried to dismiss it. But I couldn't resist…

"It wasn't a red scarf by any chance?"

"Yes… How did you know?"

"Maybe I'll tell you that story another time… That was kind of you, going out of your way to help her like that. You should tell her to go to a teacher if that business continues, the bullying I mean."

"I will, don't worry. The bullies are both idiots anyway. They were even teasing her accent."

"Her accent?"

"Yeah, she's from Sweden you see. She moved to America a few months ago, because of her dad's job."

I had to put my mug down.

"She's Swedish?" I asked in surprise.

"Yes, from Stockholm. It's so stupid to jeer someone over a thing like that." He paused. "I was thinking afterwards – wasn't great-Grandma born in Sweden?"

"Yes... yes, she was... Well done for remembering, lad!"

I was silent for a moment, just thinking about the red scarf… "Sounds like this young lady has got one good friend, anyway! Is she a nice girl?"

"Yes, really nice, and she's pretty-."

He blushed, realising his mistake, but I smirked and raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, is she now? Hmm, sounds like I should order my wedding suit perhaps, and book the church?"

"Grandpa! She's just a friend!"

I raised my hands in mock surrender, but his blush only deepened.

"Oh all right then, just something for your engagement party-"

A cushion was fired at me, and the two of us laughed as I threw it back at him.

They're only 12 and I could be reading too much into this, but still, life has a funny way of coming full circle sometimes.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

It's getting late now and I'm alone in the sitting room, thinking about all I've written in this journal up to now. I've even been browsing through the diaries I kept when I was a boy, all stored in a safe place. How much of this story will I share with my family and how much will I edit or leave out? Will I hide all the unpleasant things, just as Mother did when I was a child? Does my daughter need to know everything about the Opera House years, when she remembers her grandfather chasing her and allowing her to brush his wig with her dolls hairbrush? I haven't decided yet. Does everyone re-interpret the past to suit themselves, or to spare the feelings of others?

But one thing is clear about this account. So many of the people on these pages are dead – and I am not. I am a husband, a father, a grandfather, a composer, a retired music tutor; I am all of those things and more. And I _live_.

I glance at the clock, the clock I received as a retirement present from the college after a long and happy career. Time is passing as always, but I have so much to live for in this moment, in this time. And yet the world is still the same as it was when I started writing. No doubt George and I will have plenty to complain about when we next meet, but was there ever truly a golden age? Are the old not always looking back, thinking everything was better "in our day"?

_This_ is the world I live in, for better or for worse. It is 1967, not 1907 or 1919 or any other of the years described in this journal. I have so much to be thankful for: my wonderful wife, my family – _all _my family now, my music… The past may be another country but the all the fundamental things remain, like friendship, family, and most of all love… I hope my grandchildren will always know those three things, no matter what the world is like when they are my age.

I am looking through the book I read to Laura earlier – Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tales. The book that Mother packed for me at the last minute as a surprise has become a much loved family heirloom, despite being a little musty these days. Stephen sometimes claims he's too old for fairy tales, yet this evening I saw him listening attentively out of the corner of my eye. All the stories I loved are here, all the pictures I used to look at with Mother during those early years in the chateau - and here is the picture of the Snow Queen, her dark beauty immortalised on the page.

Sometimes when my grandchildren get tired of TV I tell them stories of Little Lotte and the goblins of the North, or tales of Phantasma and the Trio, or the little boy playing on the sloping lawn of a French country estate, or even the story of the two children listening to the violin in a house by the sea, all those years ago. Tales they both enjoy still and which I look forward to telling to Charles' two children. I hope these stories will go on forever, like a thread running through my line of descendants, merging with all the stories yet to come.

That little boy, the innocent little brown haired boy who stepped off a ship dreaming of Phantasma… He seems so far away from me now when I look in the mirror. But he _is _me. He is a part of me, deep inside. I have been many Gustaves and they are _all_ a part of me. All of them are different pieces that form a complete picture.

No doubt there will come a day when I am older; when I am ill and frail and tired of life. A day when I will want nothing more than to finally join Mother and all my loved ones in heaven, where there will be no more partings.

But that day is not here yet.

When I began writing, I saw myself as a character at the end of a very long story, left behind to take the final bow. But it's not the end. It's only the beginning.

Tonight a new generation sleeps under my roof, and I want to see them grow up and start to take their place in the world, especially now. When Papa was alone in his mother's attic or cold and hungry in that cage, did he ever think he would found a dynasty, a line of descendants that would go on long after he was gone?

Tonight, just before I go to bed, I will look at that old photograph on top of the piano, the picture of a beautiful chestnut haired young woman with a smile that would melt the hardest heart. A woman who is no longer a living angel but a human being who made mistakes, just as I have done, and I will look at her in fondness, not in sorrow.

I will hold all those I have loved and lost in my heart. I will treasure the memories of both my parents, always, for they have both made me what I am. But I cannot continue to live in the past, not when I am loved and needed so much in the present. There are so many things I still want to do, so much music still to be created, so much I want to teach the next generation.

Life is not finished with me yet.


End file.
